Chapter 3 - THE MESSAGE THAT KNEW MY REAL NAME
I had spent twelve years constructing an ordinary life.
It wasn't glamorous.
I rented a one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat in Dorchester.
My furniture came from secondhand stores.
I drove a ten-year-old Honda that made a terrible noise whenever I turned left.
I worked long shifts at St. Bartholomew's and saved money for a master's degree in nursing.
Ordinary things.
Beautifully ordinary things.
I had fought for every one of them.
Now a stranger had photographed me outside my apartment.
Dominic studied the image.
“Who knows where you live?”
“My landlord. My coworkers. The hospital.”
“Anyone from Blackwater?”
“No.”
“Eleanor Voss?”
“I haven't seen her since I was sixteen.”
He examined the message again.
Then looked at me.
“You need protection.”
“I need to call the police.”
“Do both.”
I blinked.
That wasn't the answer I'd expected from Boston's most feared criminal.
Dominic noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You expected me to tell you the police are useless.”
“I expected something like that.”
He leaned back.
“Some of them are. Some aren't. What matters is finding people who'll actually investigate.”
I considered him.
“You've changed your opinion of law enforcement?”
“No. I've changed my opinion of pretending I can solve everything myself.”
The honesty surprised me.
But it didn't make him safe.
Not yet.
That afternoon, I spoke with Detective Lena Ortiz from the Boston Police Department.
She took the threatening message seriously.
She also asked questions about Blackwater House.
When I gave her my original name, she frowned.
“Grace Ellison?”
“Yes.”
She typed into her computer.
Then stopped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“According to the historical record, Grace Ellison died on October ninth, twelve years ago.”
“I know.”
She looked up.
“And Grace Walker entered the foster care system eleven days later.”
My stomach tightened.
“Can you tell who authorized the records?”
“Not without obtaining additional files.”
She studied me.
“Do you have any documentation connecting those identities?”
I hesitated.
Then removed a folded paper from my wallet.
It was a photocopy of my mother's medical license.
On the back, in her handwriting, were three words:
Remember the lighthouse.
Detective Ortiz examined it.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mother gave it to me before the fire.”
She returned it carefully.
“I'm going to refer this to investigators who handle historical fraud and missing-person cases.”
I nodded.
For the first time in years, someone had listened without telling me I was confused.
When I returned to Dominic's hospital room, Marcus Reed stood outside.
He looked exhausted.
“Boss wants to see you.”
“He needs to rest.”
Marcus gave a humorless smile.
“Tell him that.”
I entered.
Dominic sat upright with a folder across his lap.
“Grace.”
“What have you done now?”
He held up a photograph.
I recognized the pendant.
The lighthouse.
The crescent moon.
The three lines.
“This was taken from the man who shot me,” he said.
I stepped closer.
“Who was he?”
“His name was Nathan Kessler. Former private security contractor.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. One of my men disarmed him. Police took him into custody.”
I exhaled.
Dominic turned the photograph over.
“There's something inside the pendant.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The back opens.”
He handed me a magnified image.
Inside the tiny compartment was a strip of paper.
Three numbers.
4 – 17 – 9.
My pulse quickened.
I knew those numbers.
They had been painted above a locked door in Blackwater House.
A door my mother had once told me never to approach.
Dominic watched my expression.
“What is it?”
I swallowed.
“Room 417.”
“What's in Room 417?”
I looked at him.
“I don't know.”
Then I remembered something else.
The room hadn't been on the fourth floor.
Blackwater House only had three floors.
I looked up.
“Dominic, Room 417 wasn't a room.”
His eyes narrowed.
May you like
“What was it?”
“A name they used for something underneath the building.”
