Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO DIDN'T BELONG
I stood so quickly my chair fell backward.
Roman was moving before I spoke.
“The door.”
The stranger ran.
Benny and two others went after him while Roman pulled me and Walter away from the windows.
Thirty seconds later, Benny returned.
“Gone.”
“How?”
“Service entrance.”
Vincent swore.
Only employees knew that exit.
Roman turned to security.
“Lock the estate down.”
I handed him the threat.
He read it once.
Then again.
His expression became frighteningly calm.
“No one gets near Walter.”
“I’m not hiding.”
Roman looked at me.
“Maggie—”
“No.”
“You were threatened.”
“I’ve been cold, hungry, evicted, robbed, and treated like I was invisible. I am not running from a note.”
Walter lifted his coffee.
“That’s why I like her.”
I pointed at him.
“You’re still getting protection.”
“Fair enough.”
Later that evening, Roman found me making bread.
I punched the dough harder than necessary.
“You’re angry.”
“Excellent detective work.”
“You think bringing you here caused this.”
“I know it did.”
He leaned against the counter.
“I need to tell you something.”
I stopped kneading.
“Try the truth. It’s fashionable.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“When I saw you at that bus shelter, I noticed the coat.”
My hands went still.
“You knew.”
“Not immediately.”
“You knew enough.”
“I recognized it from childhood. Your mother wore that coat the night she saved me.”
My anger sharpened.
“So you didn’t randomly offer me a job.”
“No.”
“You brought me here because of my mother.”
“At first.”
I stepped back.
Every good thing suddenly felt contaminated.
The bedroom.
Walter’s safety.
The salary.
Even the hot meals.
“You used me.”
Roman’s voice lowered.
“I needed to know if you were Eleanor’s daughter.”
“You could have asked.”
“I was afraid you’d run.”
“Maybe I should have.”
He accepted that without defending himself.
Then he reached into his coat and placed an old newspaper clipping on the counter.
Twenty-two years earlier, Ravenwood Estate had nearly burned to the ground.
The photograph showed flames pouring from an upstairs window.
The headline mentioned twelve-year-old Roman Duca being rescued by an unidentified female employee.
I looked at him.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“She saved you from that fire?”
Roman shook his head.
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
May you like
“She saved me from the man who started it.”
And according to Roman, that man was still alive.
