Chapter 5 - THE WATCH THAT STOPPED TOO EARLY
Sam’s watch had stopped at 10:46.
I knew because I stared at it for most of the drive home.
Nicholas sat beside me in the back seat.
My bandaged foot rested on the seat between us.
Neither of us spoke until we reached Louisburg Square.
Then Nicholas said, “The crash was reported at 11:21.”
I looked at him.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No.”
“The watch could have broken earlier.”
“Yes.”
“But you think it matters.”
“I think everything matters until we know what doesn’t.”
Rosa met us at the door.
She took one look at my foot.
“Madonna.”
“I’m fine.”
“Nobody who says that in this house is ever fine.”
Nicholas almost smiled.
Rosa pointed toward the sitting room.
“Sit.”
I obeyed her faster than I obeyed Nicholas.
That annoyed him.
Good.
Under a lamp, I examined Sam’s watch.
Small scratches.
Cracked crystal.
A dark mark on the buckle.
Something pale trapped beneath the leather strap.
I worked it loose with tweezers.
A tiny dried petal.
Nicholas leaned closer.
“What is it?”
“Baby’s breath.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve handled it every day since I was twelve.”
I turned the petal over.
“Cheap. Common. Used in half the arrangements in Boston.”
“So useless.”
“Maybe.”
Then I remembered.
The night Sam died, he had come to the shop.
Not for long.
Maybe ten minutes.
I had forgotten because nothing about the visit seemed important then.
He walked in at eight-thirty.
Stole one of my cookies.
Complained that my coffee could strip paint.
Then asked for flowers.
“For who?” I had teased.
“A woman.”
“Should I be impressed?”
“No.”
“Should she?”
He had laughed.
I remembered that clearly now.
He asked for white carnations and baby’s breath.
Not romantic flowers.
Funeral flowers.
Or apology flowers.
“Clara?”
Nicholas was watching me.
“He came to the shop that night.”
His expression sharpened.
“The night he died?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Around eight-thirty.”
“What did he take?”
“Flowers.”
“For whom?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood too quickly.
Pain shot through my foot.
Nicholas moved.
Then stopped himself.
“Need help?”
“No.”
I limped toward the hall closet.
“My old delivery books.”
Rosa brought them before I reached the stairs.
“I moved your boxes from the shop after the back window cracked last winter,” she said.
I stared.
“How do you know that?”
“Your aunt talks.”
Of course.
We found the order.
Sam Whitaker.
8:37 P.M.
WHITE CARNATIONS — 12.
BABY’S BREATH.
NO CARD.
CASH.
Nicholas looked at me.
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did he leave in his own car?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Memory.
Sam standing at the door.
Flowers beneath his arm.
His silver watch catching the light.
Then he had turned back.
“Clara?”
“Yeah?”
“If Mom were still here, what would she say if somebody did something bad for what they thought was a good reason?”
I had been trimming roses.
I barely looked up.
“She’d say they still did the bad thing.”
Sam smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
Then he left.
My eyes opened.
Nicholas had gone very still.
“He knew someone who thought they were justified.”
“Yes.”
“Someone he planned to confront.”
I looked at the white carnation order.
“Or forgive.”
Nicholas took a slow breath.
The next morning, he had copies of the crash photographs brought to the house.
Not police files stolen in darkness.
Sam’s insurance records.
The images were ugly but not graphic.
Bent guardrail.
Crushed front quarter.
Scattered glass.
Sam’s car had left Route 2 on a curve outside Concord.
No snow.
No rain.
I stared at the flowers in one photograph.
White carnations lay crushed in the passenger footwell.
Nicholas pointed.
“He never delivered them.”
“He was still on his way.”
“To whom?”
I picked up another photograph.
Something black and silver lay near the driver’s seat.
Small.
Round.
A cufflink.
Nicholas took the photograph from me.
His face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He did not answer.
“Nicholas.”
“That design.”
Black onyx.
Silver border.
A thin diagonal groove.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
“Dominic?”
Nicholas looked at me.
“My father had six pairs made.”
I froze.
“For who?”
“Family.”
“Meaning?”
“My father.”
He counted.
“Dominic. Me. My cousin Michael’s father. Two senior men who are dead now.”
I stared.
“So the cufflink could belong to you.”
“Yes.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t.”
Again.
That answer.
The one I believed even when I didn’t want to.
Nicholas opened a drawer in his desk.
He removed a small wooden box.
Inside sat two matching cufflinks.
Black onyx.
Silver.
Both intact.
“Mine.”
He handed them to me.
I examined them.
Old.
Scratched.
Real.
“What about Dominic?”
Nicholas closed the box.
“We ask.”
That Sunday, we did.
I had not expected another family dinner.
Nicholas did not cancel it.
“I want everyone where they normally are,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because guilt changes routine.”
“That sounds sinister.”
“It is.”
Dominic arrived at seven.
Same dark suit.
Same calm voice.
He kissed Sofia’s cheek.
Asked Rosa whether her arthritis was better.
Complimented the roast.
Then Nicholas placed the crash photograph beside his plate.
Dominic looked down.
The color left his face.
“Where did you get this?”
“Answer the question first.”
Dominic looked at the cufflink.
Then at Nicholas.
“It could be anyone’s.”
“Do you own that set?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“My apartment.”
“Both?”
A pause.
“One was lost years ago.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
Nicholas’s expression chilled.
“You always know.”
Dominic looked at me.
Then back at him.
“Do not turn one photograph into a conviction.”
I leaned forward.
“Sam had your key charm.”
“You have already decided what you want that to mean.”
“You lied about knowing him.”
“I omitted things.”
“My brother is dead because everyone around him omitted things.”
That hit.
Dominic lowered his eyes.
Then he said something unexpected.
“I met Sam the night he died.”
Nicholas stood.
Aunt Sofia gasped.
Michael whispered a curse.
I could not move.
Dominic continued.
“He came to me at nine-fifteen.”
“With flowers?”
“Yes.”
“White carnations?”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“He said they were for my son.”
Nobody spoke.
I looked at Nicholas.
He looked equally stunned.
Dominic had lost his only son, Peter, six years earlier.
Nicholas had told me once.
Street shooting.
Wrong place.
Wrong hour.
Family war.
Dominic’s voice grew rough.
“Sam knew Peter’s birthday.”
“Why?”
“Because he was trying to tell me he understood why I had done what I did.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What did you do?” Nicholas asked.
Dominic looked at him.
“I made peace with Corsetti.”
Nicholas went absolutely still.
“You what?”
“After Peter died.”
Dominic’s eyes filled with something close to shame.
“I gave Anthony access to two routes you never would have given him.”
Nicholas’s hands flattened on the table.
“For how long?”
“Seven years.”
My blood turned cold.
The green ledger.
The D.
Dominic.
Nicholas’s voice dropped.
“You betrayed me for seven years?”
“No.”
“I kept you alive for seven years.”
Nicholas laughed once.
A terrible sound.
Dominic stood.
“Your father died in a war. My son died in one. You were thirty and angry and ready to turn every dock into another funeral.”
“So you sold routes behind my back.”
“I bought peace.”
“With whose money?”
Dominic looked at me.
“The six hundred twelve thousand dollars wasn’t Sam’s.”
I stopped breathing.
Nicholas stared at him.
May you like
Dominic continued.
“It was mine.”
