Chapter 9 — No Home to Return To

The first offer on the estate came lower than the agent had expected.

I accepted it after Eleanor reviewed the terms.

Rachel looked at the figure, then at me.

“You don’t want to wait?”

“I don’t want to own that house for another season.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

“It’s enough.”

I had spent too long being told that expensive things were evidence of love.

The house had expensive locks.

Expensive cameras at the gate.

Expensive curtains around a bed where I had been unsafe.

I signed the sale papers without visiting again.

Rachel had already collected everything I wanted.

My clothes.

My mother’s photographs.

A few books.

The keepsake envelope from the hospital remained with me throughout.

I left the nursery furniture behind.

The agent asked whether I wanted it stored.

“No.”

She didn’t ask twice.

Over the following weeks, Eleanor called with updates.

The property sale progressed.

The transferred interests were recorded and reviewed.

Some businesses attracted buyers quickly because people wanted a bargain. Others took more work.

I authorized the sales Eleanor recommended.

When she told me one buyer had connections to Dominic Russo, I went quiet.

“We can reject that offer,” she said.

“Would it affect the investigation?”

“We won’t proceed with anything that interferes. This is a disclosed commercial transaction, and the people handling the case know the parties involved.”

I looked at the folder she had left with me.

Dominic’s name had appeared in Vincent’s life for years.

On invitations.

On contracts.

On the schedule.

Now it appeared beside an offer to purchase interests Vincent had surrendered.

“Is he using his own company?”

“One he controls with other investors.”

I thought about Vincent standing in the club doorway.

His hand on my back.

His voice telling me to go on.

“Let him make the offer in writing,” I said.

Eleanor paused.

“You’re sure?”

“Vincent doesn’t get to choose who I sell to.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

I did not imagine Dominic innocent because he could buy something.

I did not withdraw a word of my statement.

I let the business documents pass through the people responsible for checking them and continued answering the detective’s questions.

My revenge did not require pretending one of the men had become good.

It required Vincent to stop owning my future.

By the time I moved into Rachel’s guest room, the estate had a closing date.

By the time I could walk around the block without resting, the furniture was being inventoried for the new owner.

One afternoon, the agent sent a photograph of the front entrance.

The new owner wanted to know whether an old planter was included.

I looked at the image.

White stone.

Trimmed hedges.

The same door that had rejected my code.

“Yes,” I wrote back.

Then I deleted the photograph.

Vincent was released several weeks after his arrest while the case continued.

His attorney met him outside.

There were conditions.

Dates he had to remember.

People he could not contact.

Vincent listened until he heard Claire’s name.

“I know,” he said.

His attorney stopped walking.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot contact her through someone else either.”

Vincent looked away.

“I signed everything she wanted.”

“That does not change the conditions.”

“I’m not going to threaten her.”

“That isn’t the only issue.”

Vincent took the envelope of papers without replying.

His phone had been returned.

There were messages from business contacts who had stopped using his first name.

Statements from accounts.

Requests from attorneys.

A notice from a property manager.

He scrolled past all of them.

Claire’s number was still saved.

He stared at it.

Then he locked the screen.

“Where are you going?” his attorney asked.

“Home.”

“Call before you make any decisions about the businesses.”

Vincent was already walking toward the waiting car.

He told the driver to take him to the estate.

He didn’t ask why Paul had sent a hired driver instead of coming himself.

He didn’t ask why the man addressed him as Mr. Moretti instead of boss.

He watched the city pass and tried to imagine what he would find.

Perhaps Claire’s clothes would still be in the wardrobe.

Perhaps the house would smell of the hand cream she kept beside the sink.

Perhaps leaving had been something she needed to do for a while.

He knew what she had said.

He knew what he had signed.

But he had spent so long believing his own wishes were stronger than other people’s decisions that the distinction still escaped him.

At the gate, the car stopped.

The driver waited while Vincent got out.

The code didn’t work.

He entered it again.

Nothing.

A man in work gloves approached from inside the property.

“Can I help you?”

“Open the gate.”

“Who are you?”

Vincent stared.

“Vincent Moretti.”

The man’s expression changed, but not into recognition of authority.

He turned toward the house.

A second man came down the path.

Older.

Gray hair.

Keys clipped to his belt.

He looked through the bars.

“You need to leave.”

“This is my house.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Vincent put his hand against the gate.

“Get Claire.”

“She isn’t here.”

“Then get whoever hired you.”

“I own the property.”

For a moment, Vincent heard nothing else.

The older man took out his phone.

“I’m not having an argument at my gate. Your attorney has the transaction information.”

“What transaction?”

“The sale.”

Vincent looked past him.

Through the open front door, two workers were carrying out a chair from his study.

“Put that down.”

Neither worker stopped.

“Put it down.”

The owner raised his voice.

“You don’t give instructions here.”

Vincent stepped closer to the bars.

“Who sold you this house?”

The man looked at him with undisguised contempt.

“Claire Bennett.”

Her old name.

Spoken as if Moretti had already been erased.

“She couldn’t.”

“She did.”

The owner turned away.

“Leave before I call someone.”

Vincent remained at the gate long after the man went inside.

The hired driver lowered the window.

“Mr. Moretti?”

Vincent took out his phone.

He called Claire.

The number was no longer in service.

He stared at the screen.

Then he opened a messaging app and recorded a voice message.

“I’m home. Call me.”

He sent it.

A delivery error appeared.

He tried another account.

Blocked.

The driver spoke again.

“Where would you like to go?”

Vincent didn’t answer.

He called Paul.

The call rang long enough that he nearly ended it.

Then Paul answered.

“Yes?”

“Why am I standing outside a house someone else claims to own?”

A pause.

“Because someone else owns it.”

“Did you know?”

“Yes.”

“And you did nothing?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Stop it.”

“You signed the settlement.”

Vincent’s hand tightened around the phone.

“She was supposed to have somewhere safe to stay.”

“Then you should have made your house safe.”

For several seconds, Vincent could not speak.

Paul had never spoken to him that way.

Not even when Vincent’s father was alive.

“Watch your mouth.”

“No.”

The word was quiet.

Almost tired.

Vincent stared at the gate.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“A man who sold his position and still thinks it’s waiting for him.”

“I didn’t sell anything.”

“You transferred it. She sold it. Read the papers.”

Vincent turned away from the house.

“My companies?”

“Some are being wound down. Some have new owners. Some aren’t worth what you think they were.”

“And you?”

“I work for the people who pay me.”

“You work for me.”

“Not anymore.”

The line went silent.

Vincent pulled the phone away and looked at it.

The call had ended.

Behind the gate, the owner shut the front door.

The sound carried across the driveway.

Vincent got back into the car.

“Take me to the Crown.”

The driver glanced at him in the mirror.

“There’s a different management company there now.”

“I said take me.”

The car moved.

At the club, Vincent stepped out before the driver could come around.

The brass plate beside the entrance had been replaced.

He looked at the new name.

Then he heard laughter near the curb.

Dominic leaned against a dark sports car, one arm resting around a woman’s waist.

Vivian turned first.

For a moment, her smile disappeared.

Then she looked at Vincent’s creased shirt, his unshaven face, the hired car behind him.

Her smile returned.

Dominic pulled her closer.

Vincent stopped on the pavement.

Vivian’s hand lay against Dominic’s chest.

She was wearing the bracelet Vincent had given her when she returned.

“Vivian?”

She tilted her head.

“Don’t look so surprised.”

Dominic grinned.

“You’re standing outside the wrong door again, Vincent.”

Vincent looked from him to the entrance.

Then back to Vivian.

Neither of them moved away from the other.

And neither of them made room for him.