Chapter 8 - THE TRAIN TO NOWHERE
Whitman was tied to a chair in the kitchen, guarded by two of Caruso’s men who had finally rushed in.
I sat in the study with Eleanor. She handed me the train ticket. It was dated October 14th, twenty years ago. The destination was a small town in upstate New York.
“My husband was a cruel man,” Eleanor said softly, staring into the fire. “When he found out your father was going to the police, he ordered him killed. I overheard the plan. Your father was a good man, Lucy. He used to fix my car for free before my son had money. I couldn't let him die.”
“So you warned him?” I asked, tracing the old paper ticket.
“I gave him the money from my personal account to disappear. But my husband’s men cornered him. Your father took a bullet to the shoulder. He barely made it onto that train.”
“And my mother?”
“Your mother knew,” Eleanor sighed. “We sent her the monthly payments to keep her quiet and keep you fed. She agreed it was safer if you thought he was a deadbeat. If you went looking for a hero, you might have brought my husband's men right to him.”
The door to the study burst open.
Vincent walked in. He was covered in rain and dirt, his knuckles bruised, but he was alive.
Behind him stood an older man with gray hair, a familiar jawline, and a slight limp.
I stood up, my breath catching.
The man took off his wet cap. He looked at me, tears instantly welling in his tired eyes.
“Lucy?” he whispered.
“Dad?”
I ran to him. He caught me, holding me tighter than I had been held in twenty years. He smelled like motor oil and rain, exactly how I remembered him when I was a little girl.
I looked over his shoulder at Vincent. “Whitman said you took him. To kill him.”
“Whitman is a liar,” Vincent said firmly. “When I found out the Morettis finally tracked him down in upstate New York, I went to get him before they could. I promised my mother I would protect the man who saved her conscience.”
Vincent looked at me, his gaze softening. “I also promised myself I’d protect the woman who held my mother’s hand when the world was cruel to her.”
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But before I could thank him, my father pulled back, his face grave.
“We aren't safe yet, Vincent,” my father said, looking at the mafia boss. “The Morettis didn't just want me. They found the ledger. The one your father thought I burned twenty years ago.”
