Chapter 8 - THE SECOND MAN ON ROUTE 2
Anthony Corsetti stared at the photograph for a long time.
Then he said, “That is not me.”
We were back at the private club.
Same room.
No broken glass this time.
Nicholas placed the image on the table.
“My father had that coat made for you.”
Anthony looked almost offended.
“Your father had twelve coats made that winter.”
“Not with red stitching.”
Corsetti’s eyes lifted.
Silence.
I leaned forward.
“Were you at Hawthorne House the night Sam died?”
“No.”
Nicholas’s voice cooled.
“Anthony.”
“I said no.”
Corsetti pushed the photograph back.
“My coat was.”
That stopped us.
“What?”
I asked.
He rubbed his jaw.
“I gave it away.”
“To who?”
“No.”
Nicholas stood.
Corsetti remained seated.
“Do not protect someone from me.”
“I am protecting the truth from your anger.”
Nicholas laughed bitterly.
“Apparently everyone in Boston has made that their personal mission.”
Corsetti looked at me instead.
“Your brother came to me two days before he died.”
I stared.
“Everyone met Sam except me.”
“He was trying to return my money.”
“The six hundred twelve thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Where was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how could he return it?”
“He had moved it into twelve separate cash withdrawals through drivers and warehouse managers.”
Nicholas frowned.
“Cash?”
“Not for himself.”
Corsetti tapped the ledger.
“He wanted every person who had participated in the secret route arrangement forced to identify themselves by returning their piece.”
I understood.
Twelve flower marks.
Twelve people.
Not transfers.
People carrying pieces of the same amount.
Sam had scattered the money.
Not stolen it.
“He made them choose,” I whispered.
Corsetti nodded.
“Keep Corsetti’s money and expose themselves as corrupt.”
Nicholas finished.
“Or return it and become witnesses.”
“Yes.”
My brother.
Stubborn, impossible Sam.
He had turned accounting into a moral trap.
“Did they return it?”
“Eleven did.”
“Eleven?”
Corsetti looked at Nicholas.
“One kept his share.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-one thousand.”
Twelve equal parts.
Exactly.
Nicholas’s face darkened.
“Who?”
Corsetti looked toward the door.
“No.”
I stood.
“My brother died because of this.”
“Your brother died because he believed truth automatically made people brave.”
Corsetti’s voice was not cruel.
It sounded almost sad.
“It doesn’t.”
“Who kept the money?”
Corsetti did not answer.
Nicholas moved closer.
“Anthony.”
Corsetti finally said, “The man who wore my coat.”
My skin prickled.
“And who wore your coat?”
Anthony looked at me.
“Dominic.”
I stopped breathing.
Nicholas’s face became stone.
“No.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“You already said Dominic met Sam earlier.”
“He did.”
“So he followed him to Hawthorne House.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Sam had his share.”
I stared.
“Dominic took fifty-one thousand dollars?”
Corsetti shook his head.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He was supposed to.”
Nothing made sense.
Anthony leaned back.
“The arrangement was not one man.”
He looked between us.
“Dominic created it.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened.
“We know.”
“But he did not run every route.”
“Who did?”
“Six men on my side.”
He looked at Nicholas.
“Six on yours.”
“The flower marks.”
“Yes.”
Sam had marked twelve.
“Dominic’s share?”
Corsetti paused.
“He returned it.”
My anger faltered.
“Then why was he at Hawthorne House?”
“Because he was trying to stop the man who didn’t.”
“Who?”
Corsetti looked toward me.
“Someone who still eats Sunday dinner in Nicholas’s house.”
Cold spread through me.
Michael?
Aunt Sofia?
No.
Sofia had no harbor role.
Michael worked property.
But he had access.
I remembered Sunday dinner.
Michael complaining about parking.
Michael barely speaking when the brass flower appeared.
Michael following Sofia out when Dominic’s confession began.
Nicholas seemed to reach the same thought.
“Michael.”
Corsetti did not confirm it.
He didn’t have to.
I stood so fast the chair scraped.
“Where is he?”
Nicholas already had his phone out.
Then he stopped.
Looked at me.
“You said you don’t want me making decisions for you.”
My heart pounded.
“Nicholas.”
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
We returned to Louisburg Square before seven.
Sunday.
Dinner night.
Rosa had set the table.
Aunt Sofia was there.
Dominic too.
And Michael DeMarco sat in his usual chair, drinking red wine.
He looked up when we entered.
“Everything okay?”
No.
Nothing was okay.
I looked at his cuffs.
No onyx.
His hands.
No visible scar.
Then something on the table caught my eye.
Michael had emptied his pockets beside his plate.
Phone.
Wallet.
Keys.
And a tiny brass flower charm.
My brother’s.
Another one.
Not the same charm Dominic had returned.
This one was flatter.
Smaller.
I walked toward it.
“Where did you get that?”
Michael looked down.
“What?”
“The flower.”
He smiled nervously.
“Old family thing.”
“No.”
I picked it up.
On the back were two letters scratched by my mother twenty years ago.
S.W.
Samuel Whitaker.
My lungs stopped working.
Dominic stood.
His chair fell backward.
“Michael.”
Michael’s face changed.
Not guilt at first.
Fear.
Nicholas moved between him and the door.
Nobody reached for a weapon.
Nobody shouted.
I held the brass flower in my palm.
“There were two.”
I remembered suddenly.
Sam had lost the original keychain in college.
Mom replaced it with a smaller one.
The larger one Dominic had found came from an old spare set.
This one—
This one had been on Sam’s keys the night he died.
Michael looked at me.
His eyes filled.
“I can explain.”
My voice shook.
“Were you in Sam’s car?”
No answer.
Dominic stepped closer.
“Michael.”
“Stop.”
Michael looked at him.
“You always get to be the one who fixes everything.”
Dominic froze.
Nicholas’s voice was quiet.
“What happened on Route 2?”
Michael stared at the table.
Aunt Sofia whispered, “Michael?”
He looked at his mother.
Something in him broke.
“I didn’t mean for him to die.”
And suddenly I understood.
The person who murdered my brother had not been hiding in a warehouse.
Or behind Corsetti.
May you like
Or somewhere across the harbor.
He had been eating roast chicken at our table.
