Chapter 3 - Why Vincent Came Back Alone
Harper felt the hallway tilt.
“My father?”
Vincent did not move.
Eleanor clutched Harper's arm.
“You shouldn't be here,” she told him.
“Eleanor—”
“Leave.”
Harper stepped between them.
“You heard her.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
But he nodded.
Before leaving, he placed the flowers on the reception desk.
He looked at Harper.
“We need to talk.”
“No.”
“This is bigger than you think.”
“Then I'll enjoy being ignorant.”
She turned away.
Vincent left.
For the next hour, Harper tried to get answers from her mother.
Eleanor refused.
She became agitated whenever Harper mentioned Vincent.
Finally Harper stopped.
But that evening, she drove straight to the Brass Rail.
She wasn't scheduled.
Simon looked surprised.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is Rossi here?”
“No.”
“Call me if he comes.”
Simon blinked.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Vincent arrived forty minutes later.
Harper was waiting at table four.
For once, Vincent was the server arriving to find someone waiting for him.
He removed his coat.
“Your mother okay?”
“Sit.”
He sat.
Harper placed the repaired business card on the table.
“You knew who I was.”
Vincent didn't answer.
“You knew before you came into this restaurant.”
“No.”
“Then explain my mother.”
Vincent looked toward the empty dining room.
“I knew Eleanor Lane twenty-seven years ago.”
“How?”
“She worked for my family.”
Harper laughed without humor.
“My mother was a bookkeeper.”
“Yes.”
“For who?”
“My father.”
Harper's stomach tightened.
Vincent continued.
“Your father worked for him too.”
“My father sold insurance.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Harper stared.
“My father was David Lane.”
“I know.”
“He died when I was seven.”
“I know.”
“What did he do?”
Vincent's expression darkened.
“He kept records.”
“Records of what?”
“Businesses. Accounts. Money.”
Harper leaned back.
“You're telling me my father worked for your family?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“Things he later regretted.”
The restaurant suddenly felt colder.
“Why did Mom think you were dead?”
Vincent looked directly at her.
“Because someone wanted her to.”
“Who?”
“I don't know yet.”
Harper stood.
“That's not good enough.”
“It's the truth.”
She began walking away.
“Your father saved my life.”
Harper stopped.
Vincent's voice remained quiet.
“That's why I remembered his name.”
She turned slowly.
“What?”
“Twenty-seven years ago, there was a dispute inside my father's organization. Your father discovered someone was stealing.”
“Who?”
“He never told me.”
“Why not?”
“Because before he could, he disappeared.”
“He died.”
Vincent's expression was unreadable.
“That's what everyone was told.”
Harper stared at him.
Her mouth went dry.
“I went to his funeral.”
“Was the casket open?”
The question struck her like a slap.
“No.”
Vincent reached inside his jacket.
Harper stiffened.
He removed an old photograph.
He placed it on the table.
Four people stood outside a warehouse.
One was a much younger Vincent.
Another was unmistakably Eleanor.
The third—
Harper picked up the photograph.
Her father.
Young.
Smiling.
Alive.
The fourth man's face had been damaged by a crease.
On the back was a date.
Three months after David Lane had supposedly died.
Harper's hands began shaking.
“This isn't possible.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“Where did you get this?”
“An old storage box belonging to my father.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
Harper looked at him.
“Before you came into the Brass Rail?”
Vincent nodded.
Her anger returned.
“So you did know who I was.”
“I knew your name.”
“You lied.”
“I needed to know whether you knew anything.”
“About what?”
“Your father.”
Harper threw the photograph onto the table.
“So the tip was what? Payment?”
“No.”
“An experiment?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Vincent hesitated.
“That night, I watched you walk toward a table everyone else was terrified to approach.”
He looked down at the photograph.
“You had David's expression.”
Harper said nothing.
“The money was a tip,” Vincent continued. “Nothing more.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
That answer stopped her.
“I expect you to decide for yourself.”
Harper picked up the photograph.
“Can I keep this?”
“Yes.”
She walked toward the door.
“Harper.”
She stopped.
Vincent's expression had changed.
“Don't ask Simon about your father.”
“Why?”
“Because Simon's father owned the Brass Rail when this photograph was taken.”
Harper stared at him.
Vincent continued.
May you like
“And this restaurant is the last place anyone saw David Lane alive.”
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