Chapter 2 - The Man Who Asked Permission
I woke Friday afternoon in a guest room overlooking the harbor.
For several seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was.
Then I saw the telephone.
Beside it lay a handwritten note.
The door does not lock from the outside. Breakfast is available whenever that becomes a reasonable concept.
No signature.
I checked the door anyway.
It opened.
Downstairs, a woman with silver hair stood at the kitchen counter, spreading butter on toast.
“You must be Clara.”
“That depends who’s asking.”
“Margaret Rourke. Dominic’s aunt. I’ve been told you dislike being ordered around.”
“I’m developing a specialty.”
“Excellent. You can tell my nephew to sleep.”
She put a plate before me without commenting on my size, appetite, or appearance.
That alone made her kitchen feel unfamiliar.
Dominic arrived carrying a folder.
He looked as though he had spent the morning disagreeing with people.
“Did you eat?”
“Your aunt threatened me with hospitality.”
“She’s feared throughout Massachusetts.”
Margaret pointed a knife at him.
“Sit.”
He sat.
That helped.
The folder contained copies of the loan agreement.
Arthur had borrowed through a financing company owned by Dominic’s shipping group. The stated purpose was acquiring an estate collection for auction.
The collateral schedule listed twelve portraits collectively known as The Daughters.
No daughter from the household.
No residency requirement.
No Blackwater arrangement.
“Arthur lied,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And Silas?”
“He claims Arthur called it a private family arrangement.”
“You believe him?”
“No.”
Dominic pushed another page toward me.
A message from Arthur.
She knows about the irregularities. Keeping her with you protects both our interests.
My stomach turned.
Arthur hadn’t merely tried to pay a debt with me.
He had tried to turn my disappearance into a favor.
“Did you know there were irregularities?” I asked.
“I knew his repayment numbers didn’t make sense. I hired an independent review last week.”
“So he needed me gone before anyone asked questions.”
“That’s one explanation.”
“Say it without making it sound cleaner.”
Dominic met my eyes.
“He expected me to frighten you into silence.”
Margaret set down her cup.
The kitchen became very quiet.
I looked at the page until the words blurred.
“Congratulations,” I told him. “Your reputation does excellent unpaid work.”
He accepted that without defending himself.
“Yes.”
It was not the answer I expected.
Later, an attorney named Miriam Cole arrived.
She represented neither Dominic nor his company.
He had asked a colleague to find someone available, then left the room before our consultation.
Miriam listened carefully.
“Have you reported the assault?”
“The hospital documented it. I haven’t spoken to detectives yet.”
“We can arrange that.”
“I have evidence of auction fraud too.”
“Where?”
“Some in a private online account. The rest is still in the basement.”
“Do you have access to the account from here?”
I nodded.
For eight months, I had uploaded photographs, invoices, and scanned correspondence.
I had thought collecting evidence meant I was being brave.
Now I wondered whether I had mistaken preparation for action.
Miriam seemed to read the thought.
“You survived a situation designed to make leaving difficult. We start from where you are.”
Together, we opened the files.
She stopped at the first forged provenance letter.
“This signature belongs to Helena Vance.”
“My mother.”
“Did she sign it?”
“She died three years before the date on the document.”
Miriam leaned closer.
“What did your mother own?”
“A small restoration practice. Some paintings. Arthur said most of it was swallowed by debt.”
“Did you see the estate accounting?”
“I was sixteen.”
She wrote something down.
By evening, detectives had interviewed me privately.
I gave them the names of the guards.
Arthur.
Evelyn.
Chloe.
Saying Chloe’s name hurt unexpectedly.
Her apology had been the last human thing I remembered before the cloth.
At dinner, Dominic asked whether I wanted company.
I said yes before I could make myself suspicious of it.
We ate soup at opposite ends of a kitchen table while Margaret watched a terrible game show in the next room.
“Why do people call you the Wolf?” I asked.
He put down his spoon.
“Because years ago, I decided being feared was easier than being challenged.”
“Was it?”
“For a while.”
“And now?”
He glanced at the folder beside my elbow.
“Now an innocent woman has paid for it.”
May you like
I believed that answer.
I still didn’t know whether believing him was safe.
