Chapter 3 - THE CAMERA THAT WENT DARK
By noon, every video of Ethan pushing me had begun disappearing.
Not from people’s phones.
From official sources.
The restaurant security system crashed at 2:14 a.m.
Backup copies were corrupted.
The manager claimed it was a technical issue.
Victor called it impossible.
I called it convenient.
Then my manager, Mr. Collins, called me.
“Anna, maybe take a few days off.”
“Am I suspended?”
“No.”
“Fired?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He lowered his voice.
“People are asking questions.”
“What people?”
Silence.
“Mr. Collins?”
“Caldwell’s office.”
Of course.
“They offered to pay your medical expenses.”
“I don’t want their money.”
“They also offered a severance package.”
I laughed.
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
My annual salary with tips barely cleared sixty.
They wanted me silent badly.
“No.”
“Anna, that’s a lot of money.”
“My father apparently died because he refused to stop asking questions.”
Mr. Collins stopped breathing.
“How do you know about Mateo?”
That was not the response I expected.
“You knew him?”
Another silence.
Then the line disconnected.
I called back.
Voicemail.
Victor’s card sat on my kitchen table.
I hated needing it.
I called anyway.
“He knew my father.”
Victor answered immediately.
“Who?”
“My manager.”
“Collins?”
“Yes.”
Victor went quiet.
“Don’t go back to the restaurant.”
“You don’t get to tell me—”
“I know.”
He corrected himself.
“I strongly recommend you don’t go back until we know why Collins recognized Mateo.”
Better.
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
His pause answered enough.
“I don’t want anyone hurt.”
“No one will be.”
“Victor.”
“I heard you.”
An hour later, he called.
Collins had worked at another restaurant twelve years earlier.
One owned by Caldwell Hospitality.
My father worked there nights too.
They knew each other.
Then Victor found something else.
After my father died, Collins received a promotion.
Then a mortgage payoff.
Paid through a Caldwell charitable foundation.
Twenty-seven thousand dollars.
“What does that prove?”
“Nothing yet.”
Good.
Victor did not overstate.
Then another call came.
Not from him.
Mr. Collins.
His voice was shaking.
“Anna, meet me.”
“Where?”
“St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Side entrance.”
That frightened me.
“Why?”
“Because there are no private rooms there.”
Twenty minutes later, I stood beneath stone arches while tourists moved quietly around us.
Collins looked twenty years older.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Your father gave me something.”
My heart slammed.
“What?”
“A locker key.”
He swallowed.
“He said if anything happened, I was supposed to give it to your mother.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Richard Caldwell found me first.”
My anger became sharp.
“You sold my father out for a mortgage?”
Collins closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No plea.
Then he reached inside his coat.
A small brass key.
Number 417.
“I kept it.”
“Why?”
“Cowardice has limits.”
I stared at him.
“Where is the locker?”
“Grand Central.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
All color left his face.
“What?”
He turned the phone toward me.
A photograph.
Me.
Standing inside the cathedral.
Taken seconds earlier.
Message:
THE KEY BELONGS TO US.
Then Collins whispered:
May you like
“They know you have it.”
Behind us, a man in a dark coat turned away and began walking toward the side exit.
