Chapter 2 - THE NUMBERS
Margot answered Raphael Santoro with numbers.
“Six hundred eighty dollars.”
He looked at her.
She tightened both hands around the notebook.
“That’s what I had left on the first of the month.”
Raphael said nothing.
“Eight hundred ninety-five was due for rent.”
Another pause.
“My landlord gave me five days.”
Margot looked toward the concrete floor because it was easier than looking at the most dangerous man in Chicago while explaining poverty.
“I had seventy-three dollars in checking after groceries.”
“Twenty-six on my transit card.”
“Thirty-five dollars in cash.”
“And a hospital bill I stopped opening because the number didn’t get smaller when I looked at it.”
Raphael’s expression didn’t change.
“What hospital bill?”
“My mother’s.”
“Your mother is sick?”
“She was.”
The past tense made him still.
Margot continued.
“She died in October.”
The warehouse seemed colder.
Raphael slowly removed one hand from his coat pocket.
“I’m sorry.”
She almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because condolences sounded absurd inside a storage basement at one in the morning.
“Thank you.”
He waited.
Margot understood the unspoken question.
“So why are you sleeping here?”
She exhaled.
“After Mom died, I couldn’t keep the apartment.”
“The lease was in both names.”
“She had Social Security.”
“I had part-time contract work.”
“Together we managed.”
“Without her…”
She shrugged.
“The math stopped working.”
“Where are your belongings?”
“A storage unit.”
“Where have you been staying?”
Margot looked down.
“Here.”
Raphael’s face changed.
For the first time, actual emotion.
“How long?”
“Twenty-three nights.”
The silence that followed felt enormous.
“You have slept in my warehouse for twenty-three nights.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
“Who knows?”
“No one.”
“Security?”
“I learned their rounds.”
That answer interested him.
Not admiration.
Concern.
“How?”
“The loading bay guard walks row eighteen every hour.”
“He takes fourteen minutes when it snows because the north door sticks.”
“The camera in the old archive corridor hasn’t worked since September.”
“The night custodian never comes past row twenty-seven because the floor drain smells.”
Raphael stared.
Margot realized she had just explained vulnerabilities inside a Santoro property to Raphael Santoro.
Wonderful.
“I’m not stealing anything.”
“I know.”
That surprised her.
“How?”
“You cataloged forty years of records for free.”
He glanced around.
“Either you are the most patient thief in Illinois, or you needed to make yourself useful enough to survive being discovered.”
Margot said nothing.
Raphael looked at the wool coat around her shoulders.
“Where did you get that?”
“Lost and found.”
His eyebrow moved.
“You stole a coat.”
“I borrowed an abandoned coat from a box marked 2018.”
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Then he crouched.
Not close.
Just enough that they were no longer speaking from different heights.
“Why didn’t you ask for help?”
Margot’s laugh came out before she could stop it.
“From whom?”
“Your supervisor.”
“Ms. Carver?”
“Yes.”
“She cut my hours last month.”
Raphael’s expression hardened.
“Why?”
“She said budgets.”
“How many hours?”
“Sixteen a week now.”
“You said twice a week.”
“Eight-hour shifts.”
“And you still work here at night.”
“Yes.”
“For free.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s warm.”
Raphael looked around.
The warehouse was barely sixty degrees.
Margot corrected herself.
“Warmer than outside.”
Something in his face changed again.
Then:
“Do you have family?”
“My brother.”
“Where?”
“Indiana.”
“Can you stay with him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I stole from Mom.”
Raphael went quiet.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why does he think that?”
“Because someone emptied her savings account three days before she died.”
His gaze sharpened.
“How much?”
“Forty-two thousand dollars.”
“Who had access?”
“My brother.”
“Me.”
“And?”
Margot hesitated.
“My mother’s accountant.”
“Name?”
“Elliot Vance.”
Raphael’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You know him?”
“No.”
That answer came too fast.
Margot noticed.
So did he.
“Mr. Santoro?”
“What company?”
“Vance Advisory.”
Raphael stood.
His entire posture changed.
No longer a man finding a sleeping employee.
Something colder.
“Your mother’s name?”
“Evelyn Ellery.”
He looked toward the shelves.
“Did she ever work for Santoro Holdings?”
Margot blinked.
“Yes.”
Raphael turned back.
“What?”
“She did bookkeeping.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How many?”
“From 1998 to 2011.”
His face went still.
Margot felt her pulse jump.
“You knew her?”
“No.”
Then:
“But I know Elliot Vance.”
That was not good.
“How?”
Raphael looked at the notebook.
“Your mother’s accountant handled old Santoro vendor accounts.”
Margot stared.
“What does that have to do with her missing money?”
“I don’t know.”
He glanced toward row thirty-nine.
“But I intend to find out.”
Margot’s fingers tightened around the notebook.
“That’s not why I told you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to—”
“You answered my question.”
His voice stayed calm.
“That gives me another one.”
“What?”
“Why did you start cataloging these records?”
Margot froze.
She had not expected that.
He noticed.
“Three months.”
He pointed toward the notebook.
“You said you started indexing three months ago.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother died five months ago.”
“Yes.”
“Was the cataloging about sleeping here?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
Margot looked at row twelve.
Then seventeen.
Then finally at him.
“I found her initials.”
Raphael didn’t move.
“Where?”
“On a box.”
“What box?”
“Old vendor files.”
“What row?”
“Thirty-one.”
He held out his hand.
“Show me.”
Margot stood slowly.
The coat slipped.
Raphael picked it up and handed it to her without comment.
She wrapped it around herself and led him through the rows.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Row twenty-six.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
At row thirty-one, Margot stopped.
“Here.”
Box 31-14-6.
Raphael pulled it down.
Dust moved through the light.
He opened it.
Invoices.
Vendor statements.
Old payment authorizations.
Margot pointed.
On the inside flap, written in blue ink:
E.E. CHECKED 4/12/09
“My mother.”
Raphael nodded.
Then Margot took the notebook.
“I kept finding more.”
“Her initials?”
“Yes.”
“Boxes?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Raphael looked at her.
“You cataloged forty years of warehouse records because you found your dead mother’s handwriting.”
Margot swallowed.
“Yes.”
“I wanted to know what she did here.”
“Why?”
“Because she never talked about Santoro.”
That interested him.
“She worked here thirteen years and never talked about it?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“She said some jobs pay you for labor.”
“Others pay you for silence.”
Raphael went completely still.
Margot regretted repeating it.
Then he asked:
“What else did she say?”
“That if I ever worked for wealthy people, I should remember they hide mistakes in paperwork because paperwork doesn’t cry.”
The air changed.
Margot looked down.
“She didn’t like rich people.”
“I gathered.”
Then Raphael opened another file.
A vendor.
North Harbor Freight Solutions.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Margot asked.
He didn’t answer.
He flipped pages faster.
2008.
2009.
2010.
Payments.
Large.
Regular.
Then stopped.
A handwritten notation.
Duplicate authorization. Ask E.V. before posting. — E.E.
Raphael stared.
“E.V.”
Margot whispered:
“Elliot Vance.”
“Yes.”
Her heartbeat changed.
Raphael pulled out his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“My consigliere.”
Margot stared.
He glanced at her.
“You know what people call me.”
She looked away.
“Yes.”
“Then don’t pretend ‘consigliere’ surprises you.”
Fair.
He dialed.
“Marco.”
A sleepy male voice answered.
“Boss?”
“Come to warehouse three.”
“What happened?”
“Bring Luca Marino.”
Pause.
“The accountant?”
“Yes.”
“And coffee.”
Raphael looked at Margot.
“And food.”
Her face burned.
“I’m not hungry.”
Raphael stared.
Her stomach growled.
Traitor.
“Food.”
He hung up.
Margot said:
“You don’t need to do this.”
“No.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Raphael looked down at the old invoice.
“Because North Harbor Freight never existed.”
Margot stopped breathing.
“What?”
“It was a laundering company my father used.”
The words came quietly.
“My father died twelve years ago.”
“Those accounts were supposed to be closed.”
He turned the page.
“According to this, Elliot Vance kept them open.”
Margot’s throat tightened.
“How long?”
Raphael pointed at an invoice.
“Long enough to concern me.”
She thought of her mother.
Forty-two thousand dollars.
Three days before death.
“Do you think my mother stole?”
Raphael looked directly at her.
“No.”
“How can you know?”
“Because thieves don’t write ‘duplicate authorization’ on the paperwork they are stealing through.”
He held up the file.
“They hide it.”
Margot’s eyes filled.
For months, her brother had said:
Mom trusted you.
You had her bank card.
You needed money.
Who else could it be?
Margot had begun doubting even herself.
Not facts.
Memory.
Maybe Mom told her to move something.
Maybe grief erased it.
Maybe desperation made her forget.
Raphael closed the file.
“Your mother found something.”
Margot stared.
“And Elliot Vance knew she found it.”
Her stomach turned.
Then Raphael looked at the forty rows around them.
“And if I’m right, what you thought was a notebook to prove you weren’t stealing may be the first complete map of records someone has spent years hoping nobody would ever organize.”
A sound came from the far end of the warehouse.
Metal.
A door closing.
Raphael turned instantly.
Margot froze.
“No one should be here.”
“I know.”
He moved in front of her.
Not dramatically.
Automatically.
Then the lights in row thirty-nine went out.
Margot whispered:
“That light doesn’t do that.”
Raphael looked toward the darkness.
“How do you know?”
“Because it flickers.”
Her voice dropped.
“But it never shuts off.”
Another sound.
Footsteps.
Not the security guard.
Too fast.
Raphael reached into his coat.
Margot realized with a sudden cold certainty that whatever her mother had found years ago—
May you like
someone might already know Margot had found it too.
And for twenty-three nights, she had been sleeping alone above the evidence.
