Chapter 8 - THE LETTERS IN THE PANTRY
I dropped the wooden box.
It hit the tile floor with a loud crack, scattering the yellowed envelopes across the kitchen.
Nico walked in a moment later, stopping in the doorway.
“Hannah?”
I couldn’t move. I just stared at the letters on the floor.
My father’s name was written in sharp, aggressive cursive in the top left corner of every single envelope.
Richard Porter.
Inmate #84920.
My father had been in prison since I was fifteen years old. Armed robbery. Grand larceny.
He had never once written to me.
But he had been writing to Brielle Monroe.
Nico knelt on the floor and picked up one of the envelopes.
He read the name. Then he looked up at me.
“Porter,” Nico said quietly. “Is this your father?”
I nodded slowly, my throat tight. “Yes.”
“Why would your father be writing to Brielle?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I haven’t spoken to him in ten years.”
Nico tore open the top letter.
He scanned the page, his brow furrowing deeper with every line.
He didn’t read it out loud. He just handed it to me.
My hands shook as I took the thin prison stationery.
Brielle,
I saw the engagement announcement in the paper. Congratulations. The DeSantis money will look good on you.
Don’t forget our arrangement. I took the fall for the boating accident in '99. I kept my mouth shut so you could collect the life insurance.
My daughter is struggling. I want you to hire her. Pay her well. Keep her close. If you don't take care of Hannah, I will tell Nico exactly how his first wife died. And I will tell him who paid Marcus Vance to cut the brake lines.
Send the next payment by the 1st.
Richard.
I stopped breathing.
The letters blurred as tears spilled over my eyelashes.
My father didn’t rob a bank.
He had taken the fall for the murder of Brielle’s first husband.
He had blackmailed her to force her to give me a job in the DeSantis household.
Everything I had built over the last year—my pride in my work, my bond with Ruby, the small measure of stability I had finally found—was a lie.
I was here because of blackmail.
I dropped the letter and backed away, hitting the edge of the kitchen island.
“Hannah,” Nico said softly, stepping toward me.
“Don’t,” I choked out, holding up my good hand. “Please, Mr. DeSantis. Don’t.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I’m the reason she hated me,” I sobbed, the realization crashing down. “I thought she was just cruel. But she was terrified of me. Every time she looked at me, she remembered what she did.”
Nico stepped closer, ignoring my raised hand.
“Look at me.”
I forced myself to look up into his dark, steady eyes.
“You are here,” Nico said firmly, “because you are kind to my daughter. Because you wash her favorite quilt when she needs comfort. Because you took a bruised arm tonight rather than let a child feel abandoned.”
He reached out and gently touched my uninjured shoulder.
“Your father got you through the door. But you earned your place in this house.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to steady my breathing.
“We have everything,” Nico said, looking at the scattered letters on the floor.
He picked up the wooden box.
“We have Marcus’s dry-cleaning receipt. We have Ruby’s drawing. And now we have a written confession of blackmail and murder from your father.”
“It’s enough for the police,” I said softly.
“It’s more than enough.” Nico checked his watch. It was 3:00 A.M.
“Get some sleep, Hannah. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
Nico’s eyes hardened into black ice.
“Tomorrow, Brielle thinks she is coming to the bank to empty Beth’s safety deposit box before I can get to it. She thinks she’s going to run.”
He set the box of letters on the counter.
“But she’s not going to run. She’s going to fall.”
I went to my small room off the kitchen, but I didn’t sleep.
I sat on the edge of my bed, holding my bruised arm, watching the sun slowly rise over the Chicago skyline.
At 7:00 A.M., I put on a clean uniform.
I brushed my hair back into a neat bun.
I walked into the kitchen and started making breakfast.
At 7:30 A.M., Nico came down. He was wearing a sharp, dark suit.
He looked like the mafia boss the rumors claimed his father had been.
Ruby came bounding down the stairs a moment later, clutching her quilt.
She ran straight to me and hugged my legs.
“Good morning, bug,” I smiled, smoothing her hair.
Nico watched us for a moment, a profound softness settling over his harsh features.
“Hannah,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Leave the uniform here today. Put on your own clothes. You’re coming with me.”
I nodded.
An hour later, we pulled up to the large stone steps of the First National Bank of Chicago.
Two unmarked police cars were already parked down the street.
Nico had made a phone call.
We walked into the grand marble lobby.
Brielle was already there, pacing nervously near the vault entrance.
When she saw us, she stopped dead.
She looked at Nico. Then she looked at me.
She smiled, but it was brittle and hollow.
“Nico,” she breathed. “I knew you’d come to your senses. We need to open that box and destroy whatever Marcus put in there.”
Nico didn’t smile back.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusted key.
“We’re going to open it, Brielle,” Nico said smoothly.
He handed the key to the bank manager, who was waiting nervously nearby.
“But you’re not going to destroy anything.”
The bank manager disappeared into the vault.
Brielle’s eyes darted toward the exit. She saw a man in a plain suit standing by the glass doors.
A detective.
She turned back to Nico, panic rising in her throat.
“Nico, what did you do?”
Nico reached into his coat and pulled out a single sheet of prison stationery.
“I had a long talk with Richard Porter this morning,” Nico said quietly.
Brielle’s face turned the color of ash.
“No,” she whispered.
The bank manager returned, carrying a long, flat metal box.
He set it on the mahogany table between them.
He flipped the latch and opened the lid.
Brielle gasped, stumbling backward.
Because the box wasn’t filled with blackmail photos or legal documents.
Sitting in the center of the velvet-lined box was a single, terrifying object.
May you like
A bloodstained wrench.
TITLE: The End Of The Long Con
