Chapter 1 - Eight Minutes
The bathroom door exploded inward on Eric’s third kick.
Wood struck the wall. The lock tore free and slid across the bloodied tile.
I sat beneath the sink with my broken arm pressed against my stomach and Vincent Moretti’s black card near my knee.
Eric filled the doorway.
His shirt was open at the collar. Sweat darkened his hairline. The rage in his face had already passed beyond anything words could calm.
“Who the hell are you calling, you useless little waitress?”
He lunged.
I pushed myself backward with my good hand, but the wall stopped me.
Eric grabbed my hair and pulled my head away from the phone.
Pain burned across my scalp.
“Vincent,” I gasped. “Please. He broke my arm.”
Eric laughed.
Then he caught my ankle and dragged me across the bathroom floor.
My shoulder struck the broken door. My injured arm moved against my body, and the pain became so sharp that my vision turned white.
I clawed at the tile with my free hand.
Blood from my split palm streaked the floor.
“Nobody in this city is coming for trash like you,” Eric said.
The phone slipped near my cheek.
Vincent’s voice came through the speaker.
“Take your hand off her.”
Eric froze for half a second.
Not because he recognized the voice.
Because of the certainty inside it.
“Who is this?”
“I am already outside.”
The apartment door shook beneath a violent blow.
Eric looked toward the hallway.
Another strike followed.
The frame groaned.
He jerked me harder, as though reaching the front door with me still in his grip would somehow restore control.
“You called somebody here?”
I tried to pull my ankle free.
He shoved me against the hallway wall and stormed toward the entrance.
The third impact opened the door.
It did not swing.
It broke away from the damaged frame and struck the inside wall.
Three men entered first.
Dark coats. Controlled movements. No shouting.
Vincent Moretti walked behind them.
I had seen him only once before, during my overnight shift at the Lexington Diner.
That night he wore a charcoal suit and sat beneath the broken neon sign with three silent men around him. Every customer lowered their voice.
I spilled coffee near his hand.
He looked at the cup, then at me.
“It is all right.”
After he left, I found the black card beneath the check.
Vincent Moretti.
A telephone number.
Four handwritten words.
If you ever need help.
Now he stood inside my apartment wearing a black wool coat, his expression so calm that Eric’s anger suddenly looked childish.
Eric pointed at him.
“Get out of my house.”
Vincent looked past him.
His eyes found me on the floor.
The blood.
The torn white dress.
My arm hanging at the wrong angle.
Something changed behind his face, but his voice remained level.
“Now let us see how brave you are when I am standing in your house.”
Eric charged.
One of Vincent’s men caught him around the chest and drove him against the wall.
Eric swung wildly.
The second man seized his wrist.
Vincent did not touch him.
He crossed the hallway and knelt several feet from me.
“Lena.”
I tried to move away before I realized what I was doing.
He noticed.
“May I come closer?”
No man had asked my permission inside that apartment in years.
I nodded.
Vincent removed his coat and placed it over my legs without touching my arm.
“An ambulance is coming.”
“Do not call police,” Eric shouted. “She attacked me.”
Vincent looked toward him.
“Did she break her own arm?”
“She fell.”
Vincent’s gaze moved to the wall.
A dent appeared at shoulder height. Blood marked the edge.
The apartment told the truth even while Eric shouted over it.
Sirens rose below.
Eric stopped fighting.
Fear entered his face.
Not fear of prison.
Fear of whatever Vincent knew.
“You should not be here,” Eric said.
Vincent stood.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
The room became still.
Vincent looked at him for several seconds.
Then he turned toward the open bedroom.
Drawers had been removed.
My clothing covered the floor.
The mattress had been cut along one seam.
Cabinet doors stood open.
This was not only the aftermath of an argument.
Eric had searched the apartment.
Vincent walked to the dining table.
A screwdriver, a small drill, and my late father’s photograph lay beside an empty wooden frame.
He picked up the photograph.
My father, Frank Carter, stood beside me on my nineteenth birthday.
Vincent’s thumb stopped near the lower corner.
“You knew her father?”
Eric said nothing.
I stared at Vincent.
“You knew him?”
Paramedics entered before he answered.
They moved between us, examined my arm, and placed a brace around it.
A police officer separated Eric from Vincent’s men.
Eric began speaking quickly.
He said I became hysterical.
He said I struck him with a bottle.
He said the strangers had broken into his home and threatened him.
The officer looked toward the destroyed bathroom door.
Then toward the bruise around my neck.
“Mrs. Keller, did your husband cause these injuries?”
My married name had never sounded more like a locked room.
“Yes.”
Eric’s face hardened.
“You lying little bitch.”
The officer placed him in handcuffs.
Vincent remained near the table holding my father’s photograph.
As paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher, I looked at him.
“Why did you give me that card?”
He studied my face.
“Because when you said your name at the diner, I knew who your father was.”
“What did he have to do with you?”
Vincent turned the photograph over.
A small brass key had been taped behind it.
Eric stopped shouting.
May you like
Every bit of color left his face.
Continue to the next part: Vincent discovers the key Eric had been searching for inside the frame of Lena’s father’s photograph.
