Chapter 3 - [THE SCARLET INK ON THE PHOTOGRAPH]
The silence in the office was suffocating.
Vincent stared at the photograph in the plastic bag. The thick red ink obscuring his face was jagged, drawn with intense, angry pressure.
“Who is she?” Vincent asked, his voice low and dangerous.
“We were hoping you could tell us, sir,” the older officer replied. “She’s Caucasian, late fifties. Brown hair, wearing a grey wool coat. No phone, no keys. Just this photo.”
Vincent didn’t hesitate. “I don’t know anyone fitting that description.”
Caroline let out a sharp, ragged breath.
It was a tiny sound, but in that quiet room, it sounded like a gunshot.
Vincent turned his head slowly. He looked at Caroline, who was pressing her back against the wall, her eyes wide with a terror that had nothing to do with the police.
“You know her,” Vincent said. It wasn’t a question.
“I—I don’t,” Caroline stammered. “How could I?”
“You hit a woman in a crosswalk,” Vincent said, piecing the puzzle together in real-time. “You fled the scene. You tried to blame my driver. You pawned a family heirloom for two hundred thousand dollars in cash three days ago. And now the victim is holding my picture with a target drawn over it.”
He walked toward her until she was entirely cornered.
“Who is the woman in the grey coat, Caroline?”
“I swear, I don’t know!” she cried, tears streaming down her face.
The second officer stepped forward, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “Caroline Sutton, we need you to come with us to the precinct. You are a person of interest in a felony hit-and-run.”
Caroline didn’t fight as the cold metal clicked around her wrists. She looked entirely defeated. But right before they led her out the door, she looked back at Vincent.
“Don’t let them find Evan,” she whispered urgently. “Vincent, please. If she wakes up, Evan is dead.”
The door closed behind them.
The room felt suddenly hollow.
Vincent stood by the desk, staring at the pawn ticket. He looked exhausted.
“Mr. Marino?”
He looked up. Frank was standing up from his chair.
“Go home, Frank,” Vincent said softly. “You’re off duty with full pay until this is entirely cleared up. The lawyers will handle the police. Your name won’t be anywhere near the paperwork.”
Frank nodded slowly. “Thank you, sir.” He paused at the door. “She’s a dangerous woman, Mr. Marino. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the boy sooner.”
“Go home to your wife, Frank.”
Frank left.
It was just Vincent and me in the office.
My wrist was throbbing against the ice pack. I realized I was still wearing my catering apron. I awkwardly reached behind my back with my good hand, trying to untie the knot.
“Leave it,” Vincent said.
He walked over to me.
Without a word, he reached behind my waist. His knuckles lightly brushed against my lower back, sending an unexpected warmth through my spine. He untied the apron strings with effortless ease.
He took the apron from me and tossed it onto the chair.
“Your shift is over, Jessie.”
“I can stay to help clean—”
“Your shift is over,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Mrs. Bishop is putting your full wage, plus the overtime you were promised, into an envelope. It will be waiting for you at the front door.”
I looked down at my swollen fingers. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m going to the hospital,” he said suddenly.
I looked back up.
“The police don’t know who this woman is,” Vincent continued, grabbing his dark overcoat from the coat rack. “But she has a connection to Caroline, and she has my picture. I need to see her face.”
He paused, looking at me.
“I need you to come with me.”
I blinked. “Me? Sir, I’m just catering staff. I’ve only been here seven months.”
“Exactly,” Vincent said. “Caroline has brought hundreds of people through this house in the last seven months. Event planners, florists, distant relatives. You have an eye for detail, Jessie. You noticed a crushed car door when everyone else was busy looking away. If this woman has ever set foot on my property, you’ll recognize her.”
I thought of my empty apartment. The stack of bills on my kitchen counter.
Then I thought of the heavy, protective way he had stepped between me and Caroline.
“Okay,” I said.
Thirty minutes later, we were standing in the Intensive Care Unit of Chicago Memorial Hospital.
The smell of antiseptic burned my nose.
A tired-looking doctor led us to a glass-walled room. The lights inside were dim. The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the only sound.
The woman in the bed was hooked up to a dozen tubes. Her face was severely bruised, her head wrapped in thick white bandages.
Vincent stood at the foot of the bed, studying her face.
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve never seen her in my life.”
He looked at me. “Jessie?”
I stepped closer to the bed.
I looked at her closed eyes. Her nose. Her jawline.
Nothing sparked a memory. She had never been to the Marino estate.
“No, sir,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Vincent ran a hand through his dark hair. “It’s fine. I’ll hire a private investigator in the morning to pull her fingerprints.”
He turned to leave the room.
But as I stepped back, the woman’s arm shifted slightly off the edge of the mattress. Her hospital gown slipped up her wrist.
The fluorescent light caught something shiny.
I froze.
“Mr. Marino,” I whispered.
Vincent stopped at the door and looked back. “What is it?”
I pointed a trembling finger at the woman’s exposed wrist.
Clasped around her arm was a thick, braided silver bracelet. It was incredibly distinct, featuring a heavy silver clasp shaped like a wolf’s head.
I hadn’t recognized the woman’s face.
But I recognized the object.
“I saw that bracelet earlier today,” I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the machines.
Vincent walked back over. “On who?”
I looked him in the eye.
May you like
“On Evan.”
TITLE: THE WOLF ON THE SILVER CLASP
