Chapter 7 - The Name Nobody Said
Nicholas came to my mother’s apartment on Thursday.
I had agreed to meet him there because Mom insisted on hearing his explanation directly.
By hearing, she meant watching his face while I interpreted.
“You don’t need to soften anything,” I told him outside her door.
“I won’t.”
He carried groceries.
Mom examined the bags, then him.
He looks expensive, she signed.
“Mom.”
Does he know how to fix a sink?
“I’m not translating that.”
Nicholas looked between us.
“I assume I’m being assessed.”
“Your plumbing skills are under review.”
“I can call someone competent.”
Mom considered this.
Practical, she signed.
Then she pointed to a chair.
The groceries didn’t buy him an easy conversation.
Neither did his willingness to sit beneath the crooked kitchen calendar while Mom asked questions other people apparently avoided.
What happened to the accountant?
Nicholas folded his hands.
“His name was Peter Sloane. He found irregularities in my father’s records. He lost his position after reporting them internally.”
“Lost how?” I asked.
“My father accused him of theft. He wasn’t convicted, but his reputation was damaged.”
Mom waited.
Nicholas continued.
“I believed my father. I was twenty-six. That explains it. It doesn’t excuse it.”
“Where is Peter now?”
“Madison. Retired. I contacted him through his attorney yesterday.”
“Why yesterday?”
“Because Colin’s message made me realize Graham was using an old wound to control the story.”
I interpreted every word.
Mom watched Nicholas for a long time.
Then she signed.
Apologies are easy when the person who deserves them isn’t in the room.
He nodded when I translated.
“I’ve asked to meet him. He can refuse.”
That answer earned no smile.
But Mom put a plate in front of him.
In her language, that was continued consideration.
Halfway through dinner, Vivian called.
Nicholas listened.
“Where?” he asked.
Then his expression changed.
“The hospital?”
My fork stopped.
He looked at me.
“The younger waiter has been identified. Daniel Voss. He went to St. Catherine this afternoon asking for you.”
I felt the apartment shrink.
“Did he threaten anyone?”
“No. He left something at reception and walked away.”
“Something?”
“An envelope.”
My supervisor had contacted security.
Security had contacted police.
Nobody had opened it casually, which I appreciated more than words could express.
Inside was a handwritten note and a storage-unit key.
The note said: I wasn’t hired to kill him. I was hired to make sure he went outside. They told me it was intimidation. I saw the rifle case. My brother is in trouble. I need police protection.
Below that was a location and time.
Ruiz made it clear I would not be attending.
For once, I had no argument.
By ten that night, Daniel was in protective custody.
His younger brother had been found safe.
The key led investigators to records Graham had ordered removed from a company archive.
The existence of those records was all Ruiz would confirm.
I sat beside Mom on the sofa while Nicholas stood near the window.
“You should go home,” I told him.
He turned.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
The honesty startled us both.
Mom rose, gathered our plates, and suddenly discovered urgent business in the kitchen.
Nicholas sat beside me, leaving room.
“I’m frightened,” I said.
“I know.”
“I hate that you know.”
“I’d be more worried if you weren’t.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t get to make me brave by standing close.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
He waited.
Then I reached for his hand.
His fingers closed carefully around mine.
It wasn’t a promise.
Not yet.
But after days of cameras, statements, threats, and signatures that didn’t belong to the people named beneath them, the simple truth of his hand felt almost unbearable.
In the kitchen, a cabinet shut with suspicious enthusiasm.
Mom emerged carrying dessert.
Three bowls.
May you like
She had apparently decided Nicholas could stay.
For tonight, I decided that was enough.
