Chapter 8 - The Traitor at Callaway’s
The flash drive contained enough evidence to destroy men who had spent their lives believing they were untouchable.
Shipping manifests.
Shell companies.
Payments routed through restaurant suppliers.
Names of police officers and city officials.
Photographs of Victor Moretti meeting with people I recognized from newspaper articles.
And one name that made Reed go silent.
Thomas Ritchie.
Tommy.
His right-hand man.
The man who had warned me on my first day not to touch Reed’s office door.
The man who had bought Ava two cribs.
The man standing three feet away from us.
Tommy looked at the screen.
Then slowly looked at Reed.
“It isn’t what it looks like.”
Reed did not move.
“That sentence has never improved a situation.”
“Boss, I did not help Moretti.”
“Your name is in my dead father’s records.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
Tommy’s jaw clenched.
“Yes.”
I held Ava closer.
Reed’s voice became dangerously calm.
“Explain.”
Tommy looked at me before answering.
“Martin Hale came to me four years ago.”
My father.
“He had evidence that Moretti was using both organizations. He said he had someone inside Callaway’s feeding information to Victor.”
“Who?” Reed asked.
“He never told me.”
“Why not?”
“Because he did not trust me.”
“Smart man.”
Tommy nodded once.
“He gave me copies of some records. Told me if anything happened to him, I needed to protect Mara.”
I felt sick.
“You knew about me?”
“I knew your name. Not where you lived. Not that you worked at Callaway’s until you applied.”
“You hired me?”
“No,” Tommy said. “Elena did. I recognized you after.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought distance would protect you.”
I stared at Reed.
His face changed slightly.
Tommy had made the same choice Reed made.
Men protecting women by keeping them ignorant.
Men deciding fear was easier than truth.
“You both think hiding things is protection,” I said.
Neither of them answered.
Then Reed asked, “Who is the traitor?”
Tommy reached into his coat.
Every guard in the room moved.
But he only pulled out an old photograph.
It showed Reed’s father, Victor Moretti, and another man standing near a shipping warehouse.
The third man was older, broad-shouldered, and familiar.
I recognized him from the restaurant.
Elena’s husband.
Frank DeLuca.
The restaurant’s general manager.
The man who had reviewed my schedule, approved my tips, and told me last week that he was sorry about Mrs. Perez.
“He has worked here twenty years,” Reed said.
“Twenty-three,” Tommy replied. “And he has been sending Moretti information the entire time.”
My stomach twisted.
“Frank knows where Ava is?”
Tommy looked at me.
“He knows enough.”
At that moment, the lights went out.
The safe-house apartment fell into darkness.
Ava began crying.
Then the emergency lights flashed red.
Reed moved instantly.
“Tommy, lock down the floor.”
Tommy grabbed his radio.
“Already trying.”
The speaker crackled.
Then a voice came through.
Frank DeLuca.
“Mr. Callaway,” he said smoothly. “You should not have opened the bank box.”
Reed’s expression became ice.
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
A loud metallic sound came from the hallway.
The private elevator.
Opening.
I backed toward the bedroom with Ava against my chest.
Reed stepped in front of us.
The doors at the end of the hall slid apart.
Frank stood inside.
He was not alone.
Two men in dark coats stepped out beside him.
May you like
And each held a gun.
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