Marlo drove to Elias Marchetti’s address at 11:36 that night.

She had never been there before.

She should not have known where he lived.

Catherine had refused to tell her.

Ruthie claimed ignorance.

So Marlo searched the public records attached to one of his legitimate development companies and found an address in Beacon Hill.

Whether he actually lived there was another question.

The townhouse was dark except for one upstairs window.

Marlo parked illegally.

She crossed the street with the photograph clenched inside her coat pocket.

Before she reached the front steps, the door opened.

Elias stood there.

No jacket.

Black shirt.

Sleeves rolled to his forearms.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Marlo stopped.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Camera.”

Of course.

She climbed the steps.

“We need to talk.”

Elias looked at her face.

Then at the street.

“Where’s Poppy?”

“With Ruthie.”

“Good.”

Marlo entered.

The house surprised her.

She expected marble and arrogance.

Instead she found dark wood, old books, understated furniture, and absolute quiet.

No visible guards.

No men with weapons.

No dramatic symbols of power.

Just a home that felt as controlled as Elias himself.

He closed the door.

“What happened?”

Marlo removed the photograph.

She handed it to him.

Elias looked down.

Something changed in his face.

Not fear.

Recognition.

“You know who did this.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t know who took the picture.”

“But you know what the message means.”

His silence answered.

Marlo pulled the photograph away.

“What happened to my father?”

Elias stared at her.

“My father died when I was twelve.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Car accident.”

“That’s what my mother told me.”

“Yes.”

Her heart began pounding.

“Was it?”

Elias turned away.

Marlo followed.

“You’ve been coming to my bakery for a year.”

“Yes.”

“You knew I had a daughter.”

“Yes.”

“You knew Ruthie.”

“Yes.”

“You knew my father?”

Elias stopped.

“Yes.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Marlo gripped the back of a chair.

“How?”

“He worked for my family.”

Her mouth went dry.

“My father was an accountant.”

“For the Marchetti organization.”

Marlo shook her head.

“No.”

“He handled legitimate companies.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“He worked at a shipping office.”

“Owned by my uncle.”

Marlo stared.

Every childhood memory suddenly felt unstable.

Her father leaving before sunrise.

Late-night telephone calls.

Her mother refusing to discuss work.

The year after his death when they abruptly moved from the North End.

“Why have you been watching me?”

“I wasn’t watching you.”

“Fifty-one Tuesdays.”

“I was checking that you were all right.”

“That is watching.”

Elias accepted it.

“Yes.”

Marlo’s anger rose.

“Why?”

His jaw tightened.

“Your father saved my life.”

She stopped.

Elias walked toward the window.

“I was seventeen. Stupid enough to believe being a Marchetti made me untouchable.”

He looked outside.

“It didn’t.”

Marlo waited.

“My uncle had enemies. One of them tried to use me to force a negotiation. Your father discovered it first.”

“What did he do?”

“He got me out.”

“And then?”

Elias was silent.

“Elias.”

“Three days later, his car went off the road.”

Marlo’s breath caught.

“You said accident.”

“That is what the police concluded.”

“What do you think?”

He looked at her.

“I think your father died because he protected me.”

Marlo felt as though someone had struck her.

“No.”

“I was seventeen.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I spent years trying to learn what happened.”

“You knew?”

“I suspected.”

“And you never told my mother?”

“She knew.”

Marlo stared.

“What?”

“Your mother knew what your father did.”

“That’s impossible.”

“She asked my father to keep you away from all of it.”

Marlo backed toward the wall.

“My mother died without telling me.”

“She wanted you outside our world.”

“Our?”

Elias’s expression hardened at himself.

“My family’s world.”

Marlo’s eyes filled.

“So every Tuesday…”

“I came because I owed him.”

She laughed bitterly.

“You bought pastries because you owed my dead father?”

“At first.”

The words hung between them.

Marlo looked at him.

“At first?”

Elias said nothing.

She did not have room for whatever that meant.

Not tonight.

She held up the photograph.

“Whoever sent this knows the connection.”

“Yes.”

“Does Preston?”

“I don’t know.”

“His lawyer?”

“Possibly.”

Marlo frowned.

“Robert recognized your name.”

“Many lawyers would.”

“But he looked terrified.”

“That alone proves nothing.”

“I think you know more.”

Elias’s phone buzzed.

He checked the screen.

His face changed.

“What?”

“Ruthie’s shop alarm.”

Marlo’s blood went cold.

“What?”

Elias was already moving.

“Call her.”

Marlo dialed.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

“Poppy.”

Elias grabbed his coat.

They reached the bakery in eight minutes.

The flower shop’s front window was intact.

The door was locked.

Elias knocked hard.

“Mrs. Pike!”

No answer.

Marlo fumbled with the spare key Ruthie had given her.

Inside, flowers had been knocked from one table.

A vase lay shattered.

“Ruthie!”

Marlo ran toward the back.

A voice came from upstairs.

“Mom?”

Poppy.

Marlo sprinted.

Her daughter stood at the top of the stairs wearing pink pajamas and holding a stuffed rabbit.

“Poppy!”

She gathered her into her arms.

“Where’s Ruthie?”

“She went downstairs because somebody knocked.”

Elias appeared behind them.

“Stay here.”

He descended.

Marlo refused.

They found Ruthie sitting behind the counter holding a towel against her forehead.

“Ruthie!”

“I’m fine.”

Blood stained the towel.

Poppy gasped.

Elias crouched.

“Who did this?”

“Man in a cap.”

“What did he want?”

Ruthie looked toward Marlo.

“He asked for the photograph.”

Marlo froze.

“What photograph?”

“The one your father gave me.”

Silence.

Marlo stared.

“My father gave you a photograph?”

“Three days before he died.”

Ruthie closed her eyes.

“I promised your mother I would never tell you.”

Marlo felt anger flare.

“Apparently everyone made promises about my life except me.”

Ruthie winced.

“That’s fair.”

“What photograph?”

Ruthie slowly stood.

She led them into the back room.

From beneath a floorboard under an old cabinet, she removed a sealed plastic envelope.

Inside was a photograph from roughly twenty years ago.

Marlo recognized her father immediately.

Younger.

Smiling.

Beside him stood a teenage Elias.

And another man.

Marlo had never seen him.

Elias had.

He went completely still.

Ruthie handed him the photograph.

“You know him?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Elias stared at the third man.

“My uncle Vittorio.”

Marlo’s voice shook.

“The man my father worked for?”

“Yes.”

She turned the photograph over.

Writing covered the back.

Marlo recognized her father’s handwriting.

She read it aloud.

“If anything happens to me, Vittorio knows why.”

Marlo looked at Elias.

“What does that mean?”

Elias did not answer.

Ruthie did.

“It means your father didn’t think his death would be an accident.”

A siren sounded in the distance.

Marlo held Poppy tighter.

Then Elias noticed something in the corner of the photograph.

He brought it closer to the light.

“What?”

He pointed.

In the background stood another man.

Much younger.

But recognizable.

Marlo’s stomach dropped.

“No.”

The man behind her father was Preston’s father.

Charles Ashby.

And beneath the photograph, almost hidden by age, her father had written one final sentence.

May you like

HIS FIANCÉE HID THE MAID’S FACE AND FRAMED HER FOR THEFT—THEN THE BILLIO…

FULL STORY Red wine hit my face beneath a thousand glittering crystals,…

The Day My Sister Threw a Shoe at My Pregnant Wife—and I Sold the House…

If they ever come for Marlo, follow the Ashby money.

—