Chapter 2 - The House That RememberedOlivia had not been inside her childhood home in seven years.
The small blue house looked exactly as she remembered it.
The chipped porch.
The crooked mailbox.
The dying rosebush beside the front steps.
But tonight there was something different.
The front door was open.
Vincent's car stopped across the street.
Olivia was out before the driver had fully stopped.
“Wait,” Vincent ordered.
She ignored him.
“Olivia.”
She turned.
“My mother is inside.”
“I know.”
“Then don't stop me.”
Vincent looked toward the house.
The porch light flickered.
Two of his men moved ahead.
One checked the doorway.
The other circled the side of the house.
“Clear.”
Olivia entered.
“Mom?”
No answer.
The living room looked disturbed.
A chair had been overturned.
A lamp lay broken.
The drawers were open.
Olivia's heart began pounding.
“Mom!”
She ran toward the kitchen.
Nothing.
Then she saw the blood.
A small smear near the back door.
She froze.
Vincent came up behind her.
“Don't touch it.”
Olivia stared.
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
“You don't know that.”
Vincent crouched beside the stain.
He examined it.
“It's old.”
“How old?”
“Several hours.”
Olivia felt dizzy.
Her mother had been taken.
Vincent stood.
“Marco.”
The security chief immediately appeared.
“Boss.”
“Search the house.”
Men moved through every room.
Olivia stood in the kitchen, staring at the family photographs on the wall.
One photograph showed her mother holding her as a baby.
Another showed Olivia at four years old.
Beside her was a man whose face had been cut out.
She stared.
Someone had physically removed her father's face from the picture.
“Vincent.”
He approached.
She pointed.
“Someone did this.”
Vincent studied the photograph.
“Recently?”
“No.”
Olivia touched the damaged frame.
“The edges are old.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“Someone has been controlling the story for a very long time.”
A noise came from upstairs.
Both looked up.
Vincent raised one hand.
His men moved silently.
Olivia followed despite Vincent's warning glance.
They reached the bedroom.
The door was locked.
Marco kicked it open.
Inside, everything was disturbed.
The mattress had been moved.
A dresser drawer was open.
Olivia's mother's jewelry box had been emptied.
But the most important thing was lying on the floor.
A small metal key.
Olivia recognized it.
“My father had one like that.”
Vincent picked it up.
“Where?”
“In the photograph.”
She pointed to the old picture.
Michael was wearing a chain around his neck.
At the end of it was a tiny key.
Vincent examined the object.
“This isn't a house key.”
“What is it?”
“A safety deposit key.”
Olivia stared at him.
“Then we find the box.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Find every bank Michael Bennett used before his disappearance.”
Marco nodded.
Olivia suddenly heard a sound behind them.
A floorboard creaked.
Vincent turned.
A figure ran through the hallway.
His men chased.
Olivia remained frozen.
A moment later, one of them returned holding a frightened young man by the collar.
“Found him.”
The man looked about twenty.
He was shaking.
“I didn't do anything.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Who are you?”
“Daniel.”
“Daniel what?”
“Daniel Reed.”
“What were you doing here?”
The young man glanced toward Olivia.
“I was watching the house.”
“Who sent you?”
Daniel swallowed.
“I don't know his name.”
Vincent's voice became colder.
“Try again.”
“He said his name was Russo.”
Olivia's stomach dropped.
“Anthony.”
Daniel nodded.
“He told me to watch for you.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“What else?”
“He said if the girl came back, I should call him.”
“Did you?”
Daniel shook his head.
“I got scared.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked at Olivia.
“Because I saw what they did to your mother.”
Olivia's face went pale.
“What did they do?”
“They took her.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
Vincent grabbed Daniel's shoulder.
“Who took her?”
“Three men.”
“Names?”
“I only heard one.”
“What?”
“Russo.”
Vincent released him.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Olivia noticed something beneath the bed.
A wooden box.
She pulled it out.
It was old.
Inside was a stack of letters.
Most were addressed to her mother.
The oldest was dated twenty years ago.
Olivia opened it.
My Grace,
If anything happens to me, don't trust Anthony Russo.
He has been taking money from the company.
I found the accounts.
I know what he has done.
But I also know why.
He isn't stealing for himself.
He's working for someone else.
Olivia read the last line twice.
“Someone else?”
Vincent took the letter.
“Who?”
The answer was written on the back.
A name.
Luciano Varela.
Vincent's face changed.
Olivia noticed.
“Who is he?”
Vincent stared at the name.
“A man I believed died fifteen years ago.”
“Was he your enemy?”
“No.”
Vincent folded the letter.
“He was my father's enemy.”
A phone rang.
Marco answered.
His expression darkened.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found something.”
“What?”
“Surveillance footage from a gas station six miles away.”
Marco turned the phone toward Vincent.
A video played.
A black van.
Three men.
And an older woman being forced inside.
Olivia covered her mouth.
“Mom.”
Vincent watched the screen.
Then he saw something else.
A man standing beside the van.
Anthony Russo.
But Anthony wasn't looking at Grace.
He was looking at someone inside another vehicle.
A silver sedan.
The camera zoomed slightly.
Vincent recognized the driver.
His blood ran cold.
“That's impossible.”
Olivia looked at him.
“What?”
Vincent didn't answer.
He replayed the footage.
Again.
Again.
Then he whispered a name.
“Michael.”
Olivia's heart stopped.
The man in the silver sedan had turned his face toward the camera.
Older.
Thinner.
Gray hair.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
May you like
Michael Bennett was alive.
And he had been working with Anthony Russo.
