Chapter 7 - A Name in the Police Report
The man was named Daniel Rusk, a contractor with a history of burglary arrests. Detectives found records linking him to a security firm that had done work for Victor. The connection was enough to pursue, not enough to prove Victor had ordered anything. Lorenzo repeated that distinction whenever someone in the house wanted a faster answer.
Meanwhile, my father's job interview went well. He called me from the parking lot, laughing because he'd forgotten to take off the tie he hadn't worn in seven years. When he told me the store had offered him a position, I sat on the laundry-room floor and cried happy tears.
“You sound relieved,” he said.
“I am.”
“Then let yourself be relieved, sweetheart. Don't make fear your full-time job.”
I took his advice. That afternoon I asked Evelyn if she'd like to visit the community garden where she used to volunteer. We went with a driver and a security plan approved by the investigators. She wore a green cardigan and carried a small pair of pruning shears adapted for her grip.
At the garden, a little boy asked why her hands moved so much. His mother looked mortified. Evelyn smiled and answered, “They're a little tired after seventy-eight years of work.”
The boy considered this. “My grandma's knees are tired.”
“Then we understand each other,” Evelyn said.
I saw her shoulders relax. For months she had treated her trembling hands as a shameful secret. Here, among tomato vines and strangers, she was simply Evelyn.
That night Lorenzo asked me to join him on the back terrace. I stayed near the open doors. The autumn air smelled of wet leaves.
“Ma told me about the garden,” he said. “Thank you.”
“She did it herself.”
“I know. That's what she was proud of.”
He told me he'd spent years believing money could solve every problem, then work, then power. His mother had needed time, attention, and someone willing to ask what she wanted. He had provided everything except those things.
“People can change,” I said.
“Do you believe that?”
“I have to. Otherwise I couldn't imagine a different future for myself.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then stepped back. “I won't put you in an uncomfortable position, Clara. I know I sign your paychecks.”
I was grateful he understood the boundary before I had to explain it.
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Inside, Evelyn had left a book open on the table. Between its pages was a photograph of Antonio Moretti standing beside a younger Victor Bellamy. On the back, in Antonio's handwriting, were three words: ASK ABOUT HARBOR SEVEN.
The photograph had been taken the week before Antonio died.
