Chapter 4 - THE LOCKBOX
I set the lockbox on the counter.
Dominic’s men watched from the booths, their hands resting on their weapons. Mateo, the big man with the broken nose, stepped closer.
“Open it,” Mateo commanded.
I glared at him. “It’s my husband’s. Back off.”
Dominic raised a hand, silencing Mateo. “Give her space.”
The lock was old. I grabbed a flathead screwdriver from the drawer beneath the register and jammed it into the mechanism. I twisted hard. The metal snapped with a sharp crack.
I lifted the lid.
Inside the box, there was no money. There was no life insurance policy.
There were three things.
A faded photograph, a crumpled bus ticket, and a heavy silver bracelet.
I picked up the photograph first. It was a picture of the diner, taken from the woods out back. But it was taken during construction, before the foundation was poured. At the center of the dirt pit stood a man in a hard hat.
“That’s Mayor Higgins,” I whispered, recognizing the man who currently ran our town.
I picked up the bus ticket. It was dated four years ago. The exact night Dean disappeared. The destination was Chicago. It was a one-way ticket.
“He didn’t take the bus,” I said, my throat tightening. “Dean’s truck was found abandoned at the county line. The police said he hitched a ride out of state.”
“He never made it out of the county,” Dominic said grimly.
I picked up the third object. The silver bracelet. It was tarnished, but the diamonds embedded in the links were unmistakable.
Mateo suddenly swore in Italian. He reached out and snatched the bracelet from my hand.
“Hey!” I shouted.
Mateo looked at Dominic, his face pale. “Boss. Look at the clasp.”
Dominic took the bracelet. He examined the tiny engraving near the latch. His jaw tightened.
“This belongs to the Costa family,” Dominic said.
The Costas were the ruthless cartel that had been bleeding Dominic’s organization dry for two years.
“Why did my husband have a mafia bracelet?” I asked, my voice rising in panic.
“He didn’t,” a voice said from the back hallway.
We all turned.
Toby’s first-grade teacher, Mrs. Gable, was standing in the kitchen doorway. She was soaking wet, shivering in a yellow raincoat.
“The back door was unlocked,” she stammered, looking terrified at the room full of armed men.
“Emily?” I asked, stepping in front of Toby. “What are you doing here at four in the morning?”
“I had to come,” Emily Gable said, clutching her purse. “I heard Mercer on the police scanner. I know why he’s here, Kaylee. He didn’t come for the diner.”
May you like
She pointed a shaking finger at the floor beneath my feet.
“He came for what your husband buried under it.”
