Chapter 9 - THE NIGHT RAVENWOOD WENT DARK
I didn’t scream.
I grabbed the nearest weapon.
Unfortunately, it was a rolling pin.
“Behind me,” Roman ordered.
“Absolutely not.”
“Maggie.”
“I survived Philadelphia winters. I can survive a hallway.”
Emergency lights flickered on.
Benny appeared carrying a flashlight.
The running footsteps stopped.
Then the back door slammed.
Vincent’s security team spread through the estate.
Nobody was found.
But the kitchen office had been searched.
My suitcase had been opened.
And my red coat was gone.
I stared at the empty hook.
Whoever came inside knew exactly what they wanted.
They just didn’t know we had already found the tape.
Roman wanted to cancel Philadelphia.
I refused.
“Adrian Vale thinks the evidence is still hidden. That gives us an advantage.”
“It also makes you a target.”
“I’ve been a target since you put me in that SUV.”
Roman flinched.
Good.
He deserved that one.
But before dawn, something changed.
One by one, the men entered the kitchen.
Benny first.
Then Leo.
Marcus.
Tommy.
All thirty.
Nobody joked.
Benny placed a replacement coat on the counter.
Dark red.
Warm.
New.
“We took a vote.”
“About my wardrobe?”
“About Philadelphia.”
I folded my arms.
“And?”
“You’re not going alone.”
I looked at Roman.
He shrugged.
“I apparently no longer control my own organization.”
“You never controlled breakfast.”
Benny smiled.
For the first time, somebody said it.
“Whatever you say, Ma.”
The room exploded with laughter.
I pointed the rolling pin at him.
“Don’t start.”
But something inside my chest cracked open.
Not painfully.
Warmly.
Twelve hours earlier, I had thought these men saw me as a homeless woman Roman dragged in from the street.
Now they were arguing over who got to protect me.
We left for Philadelphia at sunrise.
At the storage facility, the manager led us to Unit 318.
The padlock was already broken.
My stomach dropped.
Roman opened the door.
Boxes had been thrown everywhere.
My father’s toolbox sat in the center.
Open.
Empty.
Then Walter, who had insisted on coming, noticed something scratched beneath its lid.
Three words.
MAGGIE KNOWS WHERE.
I stared at the message.
“I don’t.”
Walter looked at me.
May you like
“Yes, you do.”
And then he reminded me of the place my father had taken me every Christmas until the year he died.
