Chapter 2 - THE FLOWERS AT THE HOSPITAL
Amelia woke at 3:18 in the morning.
The first thing she noticed was the ceiling.
White tiles.
Fluorescent light.
The second was pain.
Her head felt as if something heavy had been placed behind her left eye.
“Easy.”
Angela appeared beside the bed.
Her mascara was smeared.
“You scared ten years off my life.”
Amelia touched her face.
Her fingers found swelling.
“What happened?”
“You got hit.”
Memory returned all at once.
Derek.
The booth.
The fist.
Tile.
Then the bell above the door.
Vincent.
Amelia tried to sit.
“Where is he?”
“Derek?”
“Yes.”
“Jail.”
Relief came first.
Then fear.
“For how long?”
Angela hesitated.
“Amelia.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Amelia leaned back.
The doctor diagnosed a concussion, several stitches near her hairline and a fractured cheekbone that would heal without surgery.
“No work for at least a week,” he said.
“I need to work.”
“Then work at resting.”
“That doesn’t pay rent.”
Angela squeezed her hand.
“We’ll figure it out.”
Amelia hated that phrase.
People said it when they had no idea how.
At dawn, a detective entered.
Detective Lena Russo.
Forties.
Dark suit.
No wasted movements.
She took Amelia’s statement.
“Did you know Mr. Lawson before last night?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Had you seen either of his companions?”
“No.”
Russo studied her.
“What about Raymond Fletcher?”
Amelia stopped breathing.
Angela noticed immediately.
“Who?”
Russo watched Amelia.
“You know him.”
Amelia’s fingers moved toward her eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“What is he to you?”
“Nobody.”
“That isn’t what your face says.”
Amelia looked toward the window.
“He was my boyfriend.”
“For how long?”
“Six years.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Three years ago.”
“Why?”
Amelia laughed once.
No humor.
“Because I left while he was asleep.”
Russo waited.
“He hurt you?”
Amelia said nothing.
She didn’t have to.
The scar answered.
Russo closed her notebook slightly.
“We found communication between Derek Lawson and Fletcher.”
Amelia felt the room shrink.
“What kind of communication?”
“Calls.”
“About me?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Yes, you do.”
Russo met her eyes.
“Probably.”
Amelia closed hers.
Three years.
Three years of different numbers.
Cash rent.
No social media.
No photographs online.
No mailing address given to old friends.
She had disappeared carefully.
Apparently not carefully enough.
“Is Raymond in New York?”
“We believe New Jersey.”
“That’s thirty minutes away.”
“Yes.”
Angela moved closer.
“Then arrest him.”
“For what?”
“He beat her!”
“Three years ago in Pennsylvania.”
Angela stared.
Russo continued gently.
“If Amelia wants to report those assaults, we can document them. But right now we need evidence connecting him to last night.”
Amelia shook her head.
“No.”
“Amelia—”
“I’m not going through that again.”
Russo didn’t push.
“Okay.”
She placed a card on the table.
“If you change your mind.”
After she left, Angela sat silently.
Finally:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because then I would have to remember it.”
At nine, a hospital employee entered carrying flowers.
White roses.
Amelia smiled weakly.
“Those better not be from Vincent Castellano.”
Angela checked the card.
Her smile disappeared.
“What?”
Angela didn’t answer.
“Give it to me.”
The card contained six words.
BROOKLYN LOOKS GOOD ON YOU, MIA.
Amelia stopped breathing.
Only Raymond called her Mia.
The vase slipped from Angela’s hands.
It shattered.
Within minutes Detective Russo returned.
Hospital security locked the floor.
Amelia stared at the card.
The letters seemed to move.
Raymond had found her.
Three years of running had ended with six words.
At eleven, Vincent Castellano appeared.
He stopped in the doorway.
Amelia’s expression hardened.
“No.”
He remained outside.
“No what?”
“No guards. No favors. No mafia solution.”
Angela looked between them.
“I’m going for coffee.”
She left.
Vincent entered slowly.
“I didn't offer one.”
“You will.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t want it.”
Vincent pulled up a chair.
“That makes two of us.”
Amelia frowned.
“You think I enjoy being responsible for everyone who gets themselves into trouble within five blocks of my restaurant?”
“Your restaurant?”
“My father opened it in 1978.”
“I thought Tony owned it.”
“He runs it.”
“Then why are you there?”
“I eat.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“Yes.”
Despite everything, Amelia almost smiled.
Almost.
Vincent’s gaze moved toward the flowers.
“Raymond sent those?”
“Yes.”
“He knows exactly where you are.”
“Yes.”
“Then your apartment isn't safe.”
She looked at him.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The offer.”
“I haven’t made one.”
“Some safe house? Men outside my door?”
Vincent leaned back.
“What do you want?”
The question confused her.
“What?”
“If you don't want that, what do you want?”
“Nobody asks me that.”
“I just did.”
Amelia thought.
“I want new locks.”
“All right.”
“I want cameras outside my building.”
“Possible.”
“And I want you to tell me what Raymond is doing with the Morettis.”
Vincent became still.
“How do you know that?”
“The detective said Derek is connected to them. You knew Raymond's name.”
Vincent looked almost impressed.
“I was told you were quiet.”
“Quiet isn't stupid.”
“No.”
“What does Raymond do?”
Vincent considered lying.
Then remembered the woman on the floor telling him not to make her responsible for more violence.
“He handles money.”
“Money?”
“Books. Shell companies. Property purchases.”
“Laundering.”
Vincent didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Amelia closed her eyes.
Raymond had always worked in accounting.
He told her his clients were private investors.
She had never asked more.
Mostly because asking questions made him angry.
“There’s something else,” Vincent said.
Her eyes opened.
“Derek may not have walked into the diner randomly.”
“What does that mean?”
“He received your photograph before he came in.”
Amelia’s stomach turned.
Vincent took out his phone.
A photograph showed her leaving Castellano's two days earlier.
Taken from across the street.
Underneath was a message:
CONFIRM IT'S HER.
Amelia stared.
“Derek wasn't sent to hurt you.”
“What?”
“According to what we've found, he was sent to identify you.”
“Then why did he hit me?”
“Because Derek Lawson is an idiot.”
Her laugh came out bitter.
“So Raymond knows.”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Amelia turned away.
“There is no reason.”
“Three years looking for someone is a reason.”
“He’s obsessed.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe obsession explains wanting you back.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“I don’t think it explains why the Morettis are helping him find you.”
That evening, Angela brought Amelia's belongings from home.
A sweater.
Toothbrush.
Phone charger.
And an old black smartphone wrapped in a towel.
“What’s that?” Vincent asked.
Amelia froze.
She had forgotten it existed.
The phone had belonged to her during her final year with Raymond.
She hadn't turned it on since leaving.
Raymond used to inspect her current phone constantly, so Amelia bought the cheap second phone in secret.
She used it to record arguments.
Threats.
Anything she thought she might someday need if she found courage to leave.
Her fingers trembled.
Vincent noticed.
“What’s on it?”
“I don't know.”
“You recorded him?”
“Sometimes.”
“How much?”
Amelia swallowed.
“Enough that Raymond once threatened to kill me if he ever found it.”
Vincent looked at Detective Russo.
Russo looked at the phone.
And suddenly they all understood.
Raymond wasn't only searching for Amelia.
He was searching for something she had carried out of his apartment without realizing its value.
May you like
The phone that could destroy him.
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