Chapter 3 - THE DEBT MY FATHER NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT
The first crash came from two floors below.
Then footsteps.
Fast.
Heavy.
More than one person.
I dropped the phone.
“Noah.”
He woke coughing.
“Mom?”
“Shoes. Now.”
“What?”
“Put your shoes on.”
Another crash.
A woman shouted in the hallway.
My pulse went wild.
Adrian’s voice came from the phone on the floor.
“Dela?”
I grabbed it.
“Someone’s inside the building.”
His tone changed instantly.
“Lock your door.”
“It is.”
“Move away from it.”
“I have Noah.”
“Bedroom window?”
“Fire escape.”
“Take him.”
“What about—”
“Now.”
Noah stared at me.
I grabbed his coat and inhaler.
“Mom, what’s happening?”
“Fire drill.”
“There’s no alarm.”
“Special fire drill.”
Even terrified, my son managed to look offended by the quality of my lie.
We reached the bedroom.
A fist hit my apartment door.
Once.
Twice.
Then a male voice.
“Ms. Marsh?”
I froze.
Another hit.
Noah grabbed my hand.
I opened the window.
February air punched into the room.
Three floors.
Metal stairs slick with sleet.
Perfect.
“Go first.”
“Mom—”
“Now.”
He climbed.
I followed.
Behind us, wood splintered.
Someone had started breaking the door.
I pulled the window down as far as possible.
The fire escape shook beneath our weight.
Noah began wheezing.
Not badly.
Yet.
“Slow breaths.”
We descended.
Second floor.
First.
Then a black SUV screamed into the alley.
I nearly dragged Noah backward.
The rear door flew open.
The diner stranger stepped out.
Adrian Varela no longer looked homeless.
Black suit.
No tie.
Long charcoal coat.
Gun in one hand.
Three armed men behind him.
He looked up.
“Dela!”
I hated how relieved I felt.
“Catch him.”
“What?”
I pushed Noah gently toward the lowest ladder.
“Catch him!”
Adrian holstered his weapon and reached up.
Noah jumped.
Adrian caught him against his chest.
The sight was absurd.
My seven-year-old in dinosaur pajamas being held by Baltimore’s most feared crime boss.
I climbed down.
The second my feet touched pavement, gunfire cracked above us.
Adrian shoved me behind the SUV.
“Inside.”
“What about my sister?”
“Is she upstairs?”
“No.”
“Then inside.”
One of his men returned fire toward a third-floor window.
I covered Noah’s ears.
“What is happening?”
Adrian opened the door.
“Later.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Dela.”
“No. People are shooting at my apartment.”
“I noticed.”
“You brought this to us.”
His face tightened.
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
A bullet struck the brick beside us.
Adrian physically lifted me by the waist and pushed me into the SUV.
I was too shocked to protest for half a second.
Then I did.
“Do that again and I will break your nose.”
He climbed in after me.
“Noted.”
The vehicle accelerated.
Noah was coughing harder.
I grabbed the inhaler.
“Two puffs.”
He obeyed.
Adrian watched.
“Hospital?”
“No. He’s stabilizing.”
“You sure?”
“I’m his mother and a nurse.”
“Understood.”
Ten minutes later, we were moving through downtown under escort.
I looked out the tinted window.
“Where are you taking us?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“I have work tonight.”
Adrian stared at me.
“You were just shot at.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re not going to work.”
“You do not control my schedule.”
“No.”
He sat back.
“Bullets are controlling it.”
Noah looked between us.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The entire vehicle went silent.
One of Adrian’s men coughed suspiciously.
“No.”
Adrian looked out the window.
Noah nodded.
“You sound mad.”
“I am.”
“At him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He investigates people.”
Adrian said, “Reasonably.”
I glared.
Noah asked, “Are you police?”
“No,” Adrian said.
“What do you do?”
Adrian and I answered simultaneously.
“Business.”
“Crime.”
He looked at me.
I shrugged.
Noah’s eyes widened.
“You’re a criminal?”
Adrian considered the question with irritating seriousness.
“I have been accused of that.”
“Mom says when people say ‘accused’ they usually did it.”
I closed my eyes.
Adrian’s mouth twitched.
“Your mother sounds perceptive.”
The SUV entered an underground garage beneath a waterfront building.
We were taken upstairs to a penthouse that looked less like a home than a place designed to intimidate architects.
Glass.
Dark wood.
Stone.
Too much space.
Noah immediately found the giant saltwater aquarium.
“Shark!”
“It’s a tang,” I said.
“He looks like a shark.”
Adrian told one of his men, “Get him breakfast.”
“I can feed my child.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then stop issuing orders around him.”
Adrian’s gaze met mine.
His men disappeared.
Smart men.
I folded my arms.
“Explain the ledger.”
He removed his coat.
Beneath it, I noticed a bandage near his ribs.
“You’re hurt.”
“Not seriously.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“You’re changing subjects.”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
He looked down.
A dark spot had spread near his side.
“Nuisance.”
“Sit.”
He actually blinked.
“What?”
“Sit down.”
“I have a doctor.”
“Apparently your doctor is terrible.”
For reasons I did not understand, Adrian Varela sat.
I opened the medical supplies someone had left on a nearby counter.
“Gunshot?”
“Grazed.”
“When?”
“Before Rose’s.”
“So you were bleeding internally while eating pie?”
“Externally.”
“Thank you for clarifying.”
I lifted the bandage.
The wound was shallow.
Angry.
Poorly closed.
I cleaned it.
Adrian did not flinch.
“That scar on your eyebrow?”
“Same incident.”
“You think someone inside your organization tried to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the ledger?”
“Maybe.”
I taped fresh gauze in place.
“Now talk.”
Adrian studied me.
Then gestured toward a steel cabinet.
He entered a code.
Inside lay one old leather book.
Not what I expected.
No computer.
No biometric safe.
Just cracked brown leather.
He placed it on the table.
“My father started this.”
“Your father was also…?”
“Worse than me.”
The answer was too quick to be pride.
Adrian opened the ledger.
Names.
Dates.
Numbers.
Some with notes.
Some crossed out.
“What is it?”
“Debts.”
“Money?”
“Not always.”
He turned pages.
“People who helped us when they didn’t have to.”
I saw:
HERNANDEZ, LUCIA — son’s tuition. Paid.
PORTER, SAMUEL — medical care. Paid.
REEVES, ARTHUR — widow protected. Closed.
Then:
MARSH, MICHAEL.
My chest tightened.
Adrian turned the book toward me.
Beside my father’s name:
March 14, 1998. Route 40. Extracted A.V. from vehicle after collision/fire. Refused payment.
Below it:
Family covered without contact. Daughter: DELA. Child: TARA.
I stared.
“My father never told us.”
“He probably didn’t want you knowing who he saved.”
“Why was he there?”
“That question matters.”
“What do you mean?”
Adrian leaned back.
“My father’s official version was that Michael Marsh happened upon the crash.”
“And?”
“Last night I had the original police file pulled.”
I waited.
“Your father was already at the scene before the crash occurred.”
My skin went cold.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
“Why would he be there?”
“According to one witness, he was waiting.”
“For you?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
Adrian turned several pages.
A photograph slipped loose.
I picked it up.
My father.
Younger.
Standing beside a man I did not recognize.
A third figure had been partially cut from the edge.
I stared.
“That’s Dad.”
“Yes.”
“Who’s beside him?”
“My father.”
My heart beat harder.
“You said my father saved you accidentally.”
“I said that was the story I was told.”
“You think they knew each other.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Dela.”
“No. My father fixed boilers for the city.”
“I know what his employment records say.”
“Records?”
“I had them reviewed.”
I pushed away from the table.
“You had no right.”
“No.”
“Stop agreeing with me like that.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I would prefer the last twelve hours not exist.”
Adrian’s face changed.
Softer.
“I’m sorry.”
That stopped me.
Not because of the words.
Because I believed them.
Noah called from across the room.
“Mom! There really is a shark!”
“There is not.”
Adrian glanced toward him.
Then back at me.
“Your father may have been helping mine.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know.”
He opened the ledger to my page.
The red word sat there.
COLLECT.
“Whoever wrote this knows your father’s debt was never closed.”
“What does collect mean?”
Adrian did not answer.
“Tell me.”
“In my father’s organization, debts were inherited.”
“That sounds insane.”
“It was.”
“What did they collect?”
“Favors.”
“What kind?”
“Information. Access. Silence.”
I stared.
“I have nothing.”
“You work at Mercy County.”
“So?”
“Mercy’s trauma center treated three men from my organization last month.”
I went cold.
“I don’t access patient records for criminals.”
“I know.”
“Then why target me?”
“Maybe they think you can.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I intend to find.”
My phone rang.
Tara.
I answered instantly.
“Where are you?”
“Police called me. Your door is destroyed.”
“I’m okay.”
“Noah?”
“Okay.”
“Where?”
I looked at Adrian.
“Safe.”
“That is not an address.”
“I’ll explain.”
“Dela, there are detectives here asking if you know Adrian Varela.”
My stomach dropped.
Adrian’s expression hardened.
I lowered the phone.
“They know.”
“Of course.”
“No. They know I know you.”
“Someone reported the attack.”
Tara’s voice came through.
“And one detective says Dad’s name was found in an old organized-crime file.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Name?”
“Detective Frank Mallory.”
Adrian stood so quickly his chair scraped back.
“What did you say?”
“Mallory.”
For the first time since I met him, Adrian looked genuinely alarmed.
“What?”
He took my phone.
“Tara, do not speak to Mallory.”
I grabbed for it.
He held it away.
“Give me my phone.”
Adrian continued.
“Leave the building. Walk outside where patrol officers can see you. Do not get into an unmarked car.”
Tara said something I couldn’t hear.
Adrian’s face hardened.
“Because Frank Mallory worked for my father.”
Everything inside me went quiet.
He handed the phone back.
Tara whispered, “Dela?”
“I’m here.”
“Someone just came upstairs.”
“Who?”
Her breathing changed.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
May you like
“That detective.”
Then the line went dead.
