Chapter 2 - THE MAN AT OUR DOOR
The knock came twenty-three minutes after Lorenzo Moretti sent his last text.
By then, Noah had stopped crying.
That scared me more than the crying had.
He lay against my chest with his cheek pressed to my sweater, making small tired sounds every few breaths. I had poured a little warm water into his bottle because I did not know what else to do, but he pushed it away.
I stood in the living room when I heard a car outside.
Then another.
Through the thin curtain, I saw two black sedans stop at the curb.
My stomach dropped.
Men stepped out wearing dark coats.
One opened the rear door of the first car.
A tall man climbed out carrying two grocery bags.
I backed away from the window.
The phone buzzed in my hand.
I’m outside. I brought milk.
For one wild second, I considered locking myself in the bathroom with Noah.
Then I looked at my brother.
His lips were dry.
I opened the door.
The man standing on our porch looked nothing like anyone who delivered groceries.
He was maybe forty. Dark hair. Black wool coat. No hat, even though sleet had started tapping against the railing.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
Behind him, two men waited near the sidewalk.
He glanced at Noah first.
Not at me.
“Emily?”
I nodded.
“I’m Lorenzo.”
I tightened my arms around my brother.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“No,” he said quietly. “But he had to eat.”
He lifted one grocery bag slightly.
“May I come in?”
I should have said no.
Instead, I stepped aside.
He walked into our living room and seemed suddenly too large for it. The ceiling felt lower. The old couch looked worse. The towel Mom had stuffed under the drafty window seemed painfully obvious.
I hated that he could see all of it.
“I only asked for twenty dollars,” I said.
“I know.”
He carried the bags into the kitchen.
There was milk.
Baby cereal.
Bananas.
Eggs.
Bread.
Peanut butter.
Soup.
Diapers.
Even the formula Mom sometimes bought when she could afford it.
I stared.
“This is too much.”
“It’s groceries.”
“It’s too much groceries.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
He opened the formula, checked the instructions, then stopped.
“Do you know how much he takes?”
“Six ounces.”
He handed me the container instead of making it himself.
That mattered.
He did not act like I was helpless.
I mixed the bottle, tested it against my wrist the way Mom had taught me, and gave it to Noah.
My brother grabbed it with both hands.
The sound he made when he started drinking broke something inside me.
I turned my face away.
I did not want a stranger to see me cry.
Lorenzo pretended not to notice.
Then his eyes moved to the refrigerator.
A child’s drawing was held there by a chipped magnet.
I had drawn it years earlier.
Three stick figures.
Mom.
Me.
A man holding my hand.
Above us, in crooked purple crayon, I had written:
OUR FAMILY BEFORE DADDY LEFT.
Lorenzo stared at it longer than he should have.
“Your father’s gone?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
I hesitated.
“Daniel Carter.”
The room changed.
It was small.
Barely anything.
Just the way Lorenzo’s fingers stopped against the edge of the counter.
But I noticed.
At twelve, poor children become good at noticing adults.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
His eyes met mine.
Before he could answer, the front door opened.
“Emily?”
Mom’s voice.
Then she came into the kitchen wearing her gray cleaning coat, cheeks red from the cold.
She saw Lorenzo.
The grocery bags.
The black cars outside.
Her face lost every bit of color.
She dropped her purse.
“No.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Sarah.”
I looked between them.
Mom had never told me she knew a Lorenzo Moretti.
She moved toward me immediately and took Noah from my arms.
“Emily, go upstairs.”
“Mom—”
“Now.”
Lorenzo spoke before I could move.
“She texted me by mistake.”
Mom’s expression sharpened.
“And you came here?”
“He was hungry.”
“That does not give you the right to come into my house.”
“I asked permission.”
“From a twelve-year-old.”
His jaw tightened.
For the first time, he looked like the man people probably feared.
But he did not raise his voice.
“You know who I am.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
That frightened me more.
Mom reached for my shoulder.
“Upstairs, Emily.”
I stayed where I was.
“No.”
She stared at me.
“I’m the one who texted him. I’m staying.”
Something passed across her face.
Pride.
Fear.
Maybe both.
Lorenzo looked at Mom.
“How long has Daniel been gone?”
Her eyes hardened.
“You don’t get to say his name.”
“Sarah.”
“You don’t.”
Noah kept drinking, unaware that every adult in the room had stopped breathing normally.
Lorenzo glanced at the drawing again.
“He didn’t leave you.”
Mom went completely still.
I thought I had misheard him.
“What?” I whispered.
Mom’s voice came out low.
“Get out.”
Lorenzo did not move.
“He didn’t walk away from this family.”
“Get out of my house.”
“I thought you knew.”
Mom shoved the bottle into my hands and stepped toward him.
“You thought I knew what?”
Lorenzo’s face changed.
The certainty disappeared.
In its place came something I could not name then.
Guilt.
He looked toward the doorway, where one of his men now stood without entering.
“Vincent.”
The man outside took one step closer.
Lorenzo asked, “When did Carter disappear?”
Mom laughed once, without humor.
“You know when.”
“I want the date.”
“March seventeenth. Last year.”
Lorenzo turned his head toward Vincent.
Vincent did not answer.
That was the first time I noticed it.
The smallest hesitation.
Then Mom reached behind the bread box and pulled out something wrapped in a dish towel.
She threw it onto the kitchen table.
The cloth opened.
Inside was a silver wristwatch.
Old.
Scratched.
The glass face was cracked near the number four.
Mom looked directly at Lorenzo.
“This showed up in our mailbox three days after Daniel disappeared.”
Lorenzo did not touch it.
But Vincent, standing near the door, went pale.
I saw him.
So did Lorenzo.
Mom pointed toward the watch.
“Daniel wore that every day for eleven years.”
Lorenzo leaned closer.
On the back were two engraved letters.
D.C.
Under them was a small mark.
A crown inside a circle.
Lorenzo’s expression turned cold.
Not angry.
Worse.
Certain.
“Where did Daniel get this?”
Mom shook her head.
“It belonged to his father.”
“No.”
Lorenzo finally picked it up.
“He told you that.”
Mom frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
Lorenzo turned the watch over and pressed his thumbnail against the side.
A tiny metal panel snapped open.
I had never seen it before.
Neither had Mom.
Inside was a folded strip of paper no wider than my finger.
Lorenzo removed it carefully.
His eyes moved across three handwritten words.
Then he looked at Vincent.
Vincent backed toward the door.
Lorenzo’s voice became almost gentle.
“Don’t.”
Vincent stopped.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Lorenzo did not answer me.
He held the paper where Mom could see it.
Her hand rose to her mouth.
Written in my father’s handwriting were three words:
May you like
VINCENT TOOK ME.
And Vincent was standing six feet away.
