Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH HER MOTHER BURNED
My design studio was in downtown Chicago.
A bright loft filled with fabric samples, architectural drawings, and furniture catalogs.
I had built it from nothing.
Now someone had broken into it.
Vincent drove me there with two security vehicles following.
I hated the attention.
But when I saw the shattered glass, my anger turned into fear.
The police were already inside.
My office manager, Sophie, stood near the entrance.
She rushed toward me.
“Evelyn.”
I hugged her.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
The intruders had searched the office.
Drawers were open.
Files scattered.
A storage cabinet damaged.
But nothing valuable appeared missing.
Vincent studied the room.
“They were looking for something specific.”
I crossed my arms.
“Like what?”
He looked at me.
“Something your father left you.”
I stared.
“My father died when I was eight.”
Vincent nodded.
“I know.”
I looked around.
Then remembered something.
A wooden box.
My father's old belongings.
I'd kept it in a storage closet for years.
I rushed toward the closet.
The box was gone.
My stomach dropped.
Vincent stepped beside me.
“What?”
I swallowed.
“My father's things.”
He looked toward the empty shelf.
“Were they valuable?”
I shook my head.
“Not financially.”
Then I remembered the photograph.
When I was twelve, I'd found an old picture of my father standing beside a man outside a warehouse.
My mother had taken it from me.
Burned it in the fireplace.
And told me never to ask about it again.
I looked at Vincent.
“There was a photograph.”
His expression changed.
“What photograph?”
I described it.
The warehouse.
The men.
The old shipping containers.
Vincent went still.
“Evelyn.”
His voice was quiet.
“Did you see a number on the warehouse?”
I closed my eyes.
Tried to remember.
Then it came back.
A faded red sign.
Pier 17.
Vincent's face hardened.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“Pier 17 burned down twenty-two years ago.”
My blood turned cold.
May you like
He continued.
“Three days before your father died.”
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