At 11:18 p.m., Gideon Puit was sitting in Rafe Santangelo’s private office at the Windmir.
He looked offended.
Not frightened.
That made Billy uneasy.
Men who were innocent usually demanded explanations.
Men who believed they were untouchable demanded respect.
Puit demanded both.
“This is outrageous.”
Rafe closed the office door.
Puit pointed at Billy.
“She has no business being here.”
Billy remained standing.
Rafe sat behind his desk.
“She has more business here than you realize.”
Puit laughed.
“You’re listening to a banquet waitress?”
Billy thought of his Monday speeches.
Do not look guests in the face.
Do not speak unless spoken to.
Do not argue.
At the Windmir, you don’t have opinions.
You have shifts.
Suddenly those rules sounded different.
Not like hospitality standards.
Like training.
Training people not to notice.
Not to question.
Not to remember.
Billy said, “How long have you managed hotel operations?”
Puit looked at her.
“I don’t answer to you.”
“Fourteen years,” Rafe said.
Puit’s eyes moved toward him.
Billy nodded.
“So you worked here when my father died.”
Puit’s expression didn’t change.
But his left thumb moved.
Once.
Across the side of his index finger.
Billy had watched people for a living.
Guests thought servers were furniture.
That made servers excellent students of human behavior.
“You knew Thomas Ror.”
“No.”
His thumb moved again.
Billy looked at Rafe.
“He’s lying.”
Puit laughed.
“Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that you answered before I asked whether you knew him.”
Silence.
Rafe leaned back.
“Did you know Thomas Ror?”
Puit’s face hardened.
“No.”
Rafe pressed a button on his desk.
“Bring him in.”
The waste-truck driver entered with two security guards.
His name was Caleb Dunn.
Billy had watched him every morning for nine months.
He looked smaller indoors.
He removed his cap.
“Ms. Ror.”
Billy stared.
“You know my name.”
Caleb nodded.
“I knew your father.”
Puit stood.
“This is ridiculous.”
Rafe pointed at the chair.
“Sit.”
Puit sat.
Caleb looked at him.
“You told me she didn’t know.”
Puit said nothing.
“You told me her mother destroyed everything.”
Billy stepped forward.
“What did he make you do?”
Caleb swallowed.
“Move bags.”
“What bags?”
“Garment samples. Paper records. Hard drives sometimes.”
“For Second Thread?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I needed money.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Caleb lowered his eyes.
“Because Mr. Puit paid me.”
Billy’s stomach tightened.
Puit scoffed.
“He’s lying.”
Caleb reached into his jacket.
Security immediately moved.
“Easy,” Rafe said.
Caleb slowly produced an old phone.
“I kept messages.”
Puit’s face changed.
There it was.
Fear.
Caleb handed the phone to Rafe.
“Four years’ worth.”
“Why keep them?”
“Insurance.”
Puit whispered something under his breath.
Rafe scrolled.
Billy watched his eyes.
“What’s ‘V’?” Rafe asked.
Caleb didn’t answer.
Puit did.
“Nothing.”
Rafe looked at him.
“I didn’t ask you.”
Caleb swallowed.
“Vincent.”
Rafe became perfectly still.
Billy knew immediately.
His uncle.
Caleb continued.
“Mr. Vincent Santangelo.”
Rafe looked away.
For the first time since Billy had met him, his control visibly slipped.
Only for a second.
But she saw it.
“My uncle ordered this?”
“Some of it.”
“Did he order Thomas Ror’s death?”
Caleb’s eyes widened.
“No. I don’t know anything about that.”
Puit said, “Enough.”
Rafe turned.
Puit stood again.
“You have no idea what you’re digging into.”
Rafe’s voice became almost gentle.
“Then explain it.”
“You inherited this hotel because Vincent made sure there was something left to inherit.”
“I inherited debt, hidden contracts, and apparently a criminal pipeline.”
“You inherited power.”
Rafe’s expression hardened.
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“No man ever does after he has it.”
Billy watched the two men.
This was no longer about Sabine.
It might never have been.
She asked Caleb about Locker 317.
His head lifted.
Puit went pale.
Billy saw it.
“You know it,” she said.
Puit remained silent.
Caleb nodded slowly.
“South Station.”
Billy’s heart jumped.
“Where?”
“Old luggage lockers below the bus terminal. Most were removed years ago, but a private storage company kept one section.”
“Does 317 still exist?”
“I don’t know.”
Puit suddenly moved.
He grabbed the old phone from Rafe’s desk and threw it toward the fireplace.
Billy lunged.
So did Rafe.
The phone struck the edge of the hearth instead of the flames.
Security pinned Puit against the wall.
He shouted, “You stupid girl!”
Billy froze.
Puit struggled.
“You think your father was a hero? He destroyed everything because he couldn’t accept that nobody cared who stitched the first dress!”
Billy walked closer.
“Did you kill him?”
Puit stopped struggling.
“No.”
“Did Vincent?”
Silence.
“Did Sabine?”
Nothing.
Billy stepped closer.
“Who killed my father?”
Puit looked at her.
Then smiled.
“Nobody.”
Billy stared.
“What?”
“He killed himself.”
“No.”
“He drove too fast in the rain.”
“No.”
“He was scared.”
Billy’s voice cracked.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
Rafe grabbed Puit by the jacket.
“Enough.”
Puit looked at him.
“You want the truth? Your uncle didn’t order Thomas Ror killed.”
Billy’s breathing stopped.
“Then what happened?”
Puit smiled at Rafe.
“Ask your fiancée.”
Sabine had been kept in a hotel suite upstairs.
When security reached it, she was gone.
The window was closed.
The hallway cameras showed nobody leaving.
But the service elevator had been disabled for eleven minutes.
Billy knew exactly where it went.
Loading dock.
They ran.
The waste truck was gone.
Caleb stared at the empty space.
“That isn’t possible.”
Billy looked at him.
“Who has another key?”
Caleb swallowed.
“Puit.”
But Puit had been upstairs.
Meaning somebody else had one.
Rafe ordered every exit sealed.
Billy walked toward the corner where she had stood every morning.
Something white lay beneath the corrugated roof.
She bent down.
An envelope.
Her name was written across it.
BILLY ROR.
Rafe reached for it.
Billy stopped him.
“No.”
She picked it up herself.
Inside was a single photograph.
Thomas Ror.
Alive.
Standing beside Sabine Voss.
The date printed on the back was the night before Thomas died.
But that wasn’t what made Billy’s hands shake.
Behind Thomas and Sabine stood another man.
Vincent Santangelo.
And on the table between them lay a ledger.
Billy turned the photograph over.
There were six handwritten words.
Your father chose the wrong ally.
Rafe read them.
Then Billy noticed something else.
A train ticket was folded behind the photograph.
South Station.
Midnight.
Locker 317.
She looked at the clock.
11:41.
Nineteen minutes.
Rafe grabbed his coat.
Billy said, “I’m coming.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what’s in that locker.”
“Neither do you.”
“My father put it there.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t—”
Billy stepped close.
“I spent four years waiting for this.”
Rafe stared at her.
Then nodded once.
“Stay beside me.”
They reached South Station with four minutes left.
The lower storage corridor was nearly empty.
Locker 317 stood at the end.
Billy held the key.
Her hand shook.
Rafe covered it with his.
“You don’t have to open it tonight.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“I do.”
The key turned.
Inside was a black ledger.
A sealed envelope.
And an old voice recorder.
Billy pressed play.
Her father’s voice filled the empty corridor.
Then another voice.
Sabine’s.
She was crying.
“Thomas, please. If Vincent finds out I gave you this—”
Thomas answered.
“He already knows.”
Then Vincent Santangelo spoke.
“You should have taken the money, Tom.”
Billy stopped breathing.
Thomas said, “And you should have left those kids alone.”
Vincent laughed.
“Everybody takes the money eventually.”
The recording crackled.
Then Thomas said something Billy would remember for the rest of her life.
“My daughter won’t.”
The audio ended.
Billy looked at Rafe.
His face had gone gray.
Inside the envelope was a document.
Rafe unfolded it.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then he sat down on the floor.
Billy had never imagined Rafe Santangelo sitting on a dirty station floor.
“What is it?”
He handed her the document.
It was a transfer agreement.
Second Thread Foundation.
Controlling financial interest.
Beneficiary:
Rafe Santangelo.
Billy stared at him.
“You own it?”
Rafe shook his head.
“I didn’t know.”
But underneath his name was a signature.
His signature.
Billy looked at him.
Rafe whispered, “That isn’t mine.”
Billy wanted to believe him.
Then she saw the date.
The agreement had been signed three weeks after her father died.