Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO OWNED MY NIGHT SHIFT
I did not sleep.
Dominic tried to send me home.
I reminded him that my apartment address sat in Obsidian’s employee records.
That ended the argument.
By three in the morning, I was inside a guest room at his Gold Coast townhouse with my ankle elevated and a security guard stationed outside.
I hated everything about it.
Especially how sensible it was.
At eight, Dominic brought coffee.
Not a servant.
Not an assistant.
Dominic.
He set the cup on the bedside table.
“No sugar.”
I stared.
“How do you know?”
“You drink coffee during every break.”
“So the spying was thorough.”
His face did not change.
“I told you. I was watching Marco.”
“And somehow memorized my coffee.”
“I notice things.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
He handed me the photograph from my locker.
“Marco’s father was Giuseppe Bianchi.”
“I know.”
“He died twelve years ago.”
“Marco said heart attack.”
“That’s accurate.”
“Was he involved with Castellano?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Dominic sat in the chair across from me.
Giuseppe Bianchi had supervised night crews at the Reyes warehouse.
Not a powerful man.
Not family.
But trusted.
The sort of person who knew which truck actually arrived at 2:00 a.m. and which paperwork only claimed it did.
“He helped Carmen copy the shipment books,” Dominic said.
“My mother trusted him?”
“Yes.”
“And Marco knows none of this?”
“Apparently.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Why put this in my locker?”
“To frighten you.”
“Into what?”
“Maybe leaving.”
“Or asking questions.”
Dominic nodded.
I touched my mother’s cross.
“Victor Castellano has watched me work in his club?”
“He rarely comes to Obsidian.”
“Rarely isn’t never.”
“No.”
“When was the last time?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Last Friday.”
A week earlier.
“Did I serve him?”
“No.”
“Did he see me?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Did he recognize me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dominic.”
“He stared at you longer than he should have.”
“And you said nothing.”
His expression changed.
“You’re right.”
The words came immediately.
“I should have.”
My anger lost its easiest target.
I hated that.
“What did you think?”
“That he might recognize the cross.”
“So you watched me for weeks.”
“I started before that.”
“Because of Marco.”
“Yes.”
“What was Marco doing?”
Dominic hesitated.
“Cutting staff hours.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Obsidian’s payroll showed full staffing. Floor schedules didn’t.”
“That’s why everyone keeps getting shorted?”
“Yes.”
I sat up.
Pain flashed through my ankle.
Dominic’s hand moved instinctively, then stopped before touching me.
Good.
“Marco was stealing wages?”
“I thought so.”
“He complained I was slow because I asked why tips were changing.”
“Yes.”
That changed my view of Dominic’s surveillance.
Not entirely.
But enough.
“Was he stealing?”
“No.”
Another reversal.
I frowned.
“Then who?”
“Someone above him adjusted payroll after Marco submitted it.”
“Castellano?”
“We don’t know.”
“Convenient phrase.”
“It’s becoming one.”
He stood.
“Marco is downstairs.”
I stared.
“You brought him here?”
“He asked.”
“Why?”
“Because he found another photograph.”
That got me moving.
Slowly.
In borrowed flats.
Dominic had somehow arranged shoes in my size.
I refused to ask how.
Downstairs, Marco sat at the dining table.
He looked worse than I felt.
Beside him was a small cardboard box.
“My father’s things,” he said.
“I went through them after I found the photograph.”
Inside were ordinary objects.
An old Cubs ticket.
A black tie.
A union card.
A brass pocket watch.
And a child’s drawing.
Crayon.
A warehouse.
Smoke.
A woman in red.
A boy holding her hand.
I froze.
Dominic took the drawing.
His face changed completely.
“I made this.”
Marco stared.
“You?”
“I was twelve.”
On the bottom, in a child’s handwriting:
CARMEN SAVED ME.
I looked at Dominic.
“You kept this?”
“No.”
“Then how did Giuseppe have it?”
Dominic turned it over.
Adult writing covered the back.
CARMEN LEFT THE SECOND COPY WITH ROSA.
Marco whispered, “Rosa was my mother.”
Silence.
His mother had died when Marco was seventeen.
Cancer.
He rarely spoke about her.
“Did she work at the warehouse?” I asked.
“No. She cleaned offices at night.”
Dominic looked at him.
“She could have accessed Carmen’s desk.”
Marco nodded slowly.
We searched the box again.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the pocket watch did not tick.
I opened the back.
Inside was folded paper.
Tiny.
A storage ticket.
CENTRAL STATION LOCKERS.
NUMBER 318.
Dated twenty years earlier.
Marco stared.
“That station was demolished.”
“Not entirely,” Dominic said.
“What?”
“The locker wall was moved when they renovated the old rail terminal.”
“Where?”
“My family bought the building.”
Of course they did.
Two hours later, we entered a freight office near the river.
Locker 318 still existed behind an old employee records room.
The brass key hidden beneath the watch face fit.
Inside was a red wool coat.
My mother’s.
I knew it instantly.
I had seen it in photographs.
I touched the sleeve.
My throat closed.
There was also a manila envelope.
Inside were copies of shipment logs.
Truck numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
V.C.
Victor Castellano.
R.R.
Rafael Reyes.
G.B.
Giuseppe Bianchi.
And another set.
M.R.
Dominic went still.
“What?”
He pointed.
“Mateo Reyes.”
I stared.
“Your brother was eight.”
“Not when these entries were made.”
The dates continued beyond the fire.
Eight years.
Nine.
Ten.
Mateo had apparently signed warehouse records until the year of his death.
Dominic’s face hardened.
“He was involved.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know.”
A photograph slipped from the envelope.
Mateo at sixteen.
Victor Castellano beside him.
Both standing in front of an Obsidian construction sign.
The club had not opened yet.
On the back:
MATEO KNOWS WHAT VICTOR DID TO CARMEN.
Dominic stared.
“You said Mateo died in a car accident.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
“How old?”
“Sixteen.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Then he knew something for four years after the fire.”
“Yes.”
“And never told you.”
“No.”
Marco lifted another page.
His face changed.
“Dominic.”
At the bottom was a handwritten note from Carmen.
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, DO NOT TRUST RAFAEL WITH THE ORIGINALS.
Dominic’s expression vanished.
Rafael Reyes.
His father.
The man Carmen had supposedly been helping.
I whispered, “My mother didn’t trust him.”
Dominic looked at me.
“No.”
May you like
Then he found the final line.
MATEO SAW WHY.
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