Chapter 2 - SEATTLE RAIN
Seattle smelled like rain, coffee, and the possibility of becoming someone else.
I decided that on my second morning there.
Rachel’s apartment overlooked a narrow street lined with maple trees and parked cars. Nothing about it was glamorous. The kitchen cabinets were scratched. The radiator made a sound like someone knocking from inside the wall. Her upstairs neighbor apparently believed six-thirty in the morning was an appropriate time to vacuum.
I loved it.
Nobody in the building called me Mrs. Blackwood.
Nobody opened doors because of my husband’s name.
Nobody watched me choose groceries and silently wondered how much Ethan had paid for them.
I was Claire Bennett again.
At least I wanted to be.
Rachel handed me a mug.
“You slept?”
“Four hours.”
“Improvement.”
“Compared to zero?”
“Statistically significant.”
I smiled.
Rachel Kim had been my roommate during sophomore year at Northwestern, before I dropped out for a semester when Dad first got sick.
She had met Ethan once.
That was enough.
Afterward, she had said, “He looks at every room like he owns the exits.”
I had laughed.
Two years later, I understood exactly what she meant.
My phone sat face down on the table.
Rachel looked at it.
“You’re going to read his message again.”
“No.”
“You’ve read it six times.”
“Seven.”
“Progress. Honesty.”
I picked up the phone.
Ethan’s message was still there.
I know about your father.
The words made my throat tighten every time.
Not because he knew.
Because now he knew.
Too late.
I had imagined that moment during the flight.
Ethan returning to the mansion.
Finding the closet empty.
Someone telling him Dad was dead.
I expected satisfaction.
Instead, I felt tired.
Rachel sat across from me.
“Do you want to answer?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
“What if he comes here?”
“He said he won’t.”
I looked at her.
“You believe him?”
“No.”
I laughed.
“But,” she continued, “that message did not sound like the man you’ve described.”
“Guilt can make people temporarily interesting.”
“Ouch.”
“He’ll recover.”
Rachel wrapped both hands around her coffee.
“What do you want, Claire?”
“A job.”
“I meant about Ethan.”
“That is not currently hiring.”
“You know what I mean.”
I stood.
“I want a job, my own apartment, health insurance, and maybe one day to make a decision without calculating whether my husband will punish me financially.”
Rachel’s face softened.
“I can help with the first three.”
“Good.”
“And the fourth?”
“I’m working on it.”
At ten, we walked to the legal clinic where Rachel worked.
Northwest Community Justice occupied two floors above a bakery.
The lobby furniture was mismatched. The copier made terrible noises. Three people were already waiting to speak with housing attorneys.
It felt real.
Rachel introduced me to her director, a woman named Leah Moreno.
“You worked in nonprofit administration before your marriage?” Leah asked.
“Development and donor relations.”
That was the polite version.
Before Ethan, I had worked twelve-hour days for an arts nonprofit in Chicago and loved every exhausting minute.
Then I married him.
At first he encouraged me to continue.
Then security became complicated.
Then there were threats.
Then he told me the board had become uncomfortable with his name being associated with donors.
Eventually, leaving my job became “temporary.”
Temporary lasted two years.
Leah looked at my résumé.
“You’re overqualified for the coordinator position.”
“I’m underemployed for all positions.”
She smiled.
“When can you start?”
“Today.”
Rachel laughed from the doorway.
At noon, I had a desk.
It was small.
Mine.
I spent the afternoon entering donor records and correcting a spreadsheet everyone else apparently feared.
At four, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I watched it until it stopped.
A voicemail appeared.
I hesitated.
Then played it.
Silence for three seconds.
Then a man’s voice.
“Claire Bennett?”
I froze.
Not Blackwood.
Bennett.
“If you received the envelope, your father was right to be afraid.”
The message ended.
My hands went cold.
Rachel looked up from the next desk.
“What?”
I played it for her.
Her expression changed.
“What envelope?”
“I don’t know.”
“Claire.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Then I remembered.
Two weeks before Dad died, a large envelope had arrived at the mansion.
Seattle postmark.
No return address.
I had opened it while packing a bag for the hospital.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
A photograph.
And a key.
I had been so exhausted that I barely processed it.
The photograph showed my father as a young man standing beside another man on a dock.
On the back someone had written:
ASK THOMAS ABOUT DANIEL.
The key had a brass tag stamped 314.
I had brought both with me.
Not intentionally.
They were inside the canvas folder where I kept Dad’s medical paperwork.
I looked at Rachel.
“I think I know what he means.”
We went home early.
The folder was in my suitcase.
I found the photograph.
Rachel took it.
“Which one is your dad?”
“Left.”
“Who’s Daniel?”
“My uncle.”
“You have an uncle?”
“Had. I think.”
I sat on the floor.
“Dad almost never talked about him. I know they stopped speaking before I was born.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“That seems important.”
“So does everything suddenly.”
I found the key.
314.
Rachel turned it over.
“No logo.”
“No.”
“Storage unit?”
“Safe deposit box?”
“Locker?”
My phone rang again.
Same unknown number.
I answered.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then the man said, “Your father is dead.”
My throat closed.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who are you?”
“He should have told you sooner.”
“Told me what?”
“That Daniel didn’t drown.”
I stood.
“What?”
Rachel stared at me.
The man continued.
“Your uncle disappeared because someone wanted what he found.”
“What did he find?”
A pause.
“Your husband’s family.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“Who are you?”
“Don’t trust anyone who comes from Chicago.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s a long list.”
“Especially Ethan Blackwood.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Rachel said, “Tell me.”
I did.
She swore.
“I’m calling the police.”
“And saying what?”
“That some anonymous man called you about your possibly not-dead uncle and your Mafia husband’s family?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds unhelpful.”
“It sounds insane.”
My phone buzzed.
Ethan.
Not a call.
Another message.
I found an old envelope from Seattle at the house. I will not ask what was inside. But if anyone contacts you about Thomas’s brother, be careful. I am not coming there. I just want you to know.
I read it twice.
Rachel looked over my shoulder.
“That is creepy.”
“Yes.”
“But also useful.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to answer now?”
“No.”
My thumb hovered over the screen.
Then I typed one word.
Safe.
I sent it before I could change my mind.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Then Ethan replied.
Thank you.
Nothing else.
That hurt more than I expected.
I hated that too.
Rachel took the key.
“We need to figure out what this opens.”
“We?”
“You think I’m letting you investigate mysterious dead-uncles-and-mafia mail alone?”
“You have excellent boundaries.”
“I’m a public interest lawyer. We don’t have boundaries. We have caffeine.”
The next morning, we began with the postmark.
The envelope had been processed through a Seattle distribution center.
Nothing useful.
The number 314 could be anything.
Rachel searched storage facilities.
I searched bank branches.
At lunch, we found a match.
A private document vault near Pioneer Square offered numbered lockers.
Locker 314 existed.
I stared at the website.
“That seems too easy.”
Rachel nodded.
“Definitely a trap.”
“Still going?”
“Obviously.”
We arrived at two.
The building was old brick with brass fixtures and no visible sign except a small plaque.
ARCHIVE HOUSE.
Inside, an elderly man sat behind a desk.
I placed the key in front of him.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“Mail.”
He looked at me closely.
“What’s your name?”
“Claire Bennett.”
The color left his face.
“Oh.”
I did not enjoy that reaction.
“You know me?”
“No.”
“You knew my father?”
“No.”
“Daniel Bennett?”
His eyes moved toward a security camera.
Then back.
“I think you should leave.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“Sir, if there is property registered to Ms. Bennett—”
“I said leave.”
The front door opened behind us.
Two men entered.
Neither looked like customers.
Dark jackets.
Broad shoulders.
Chicago instincts, apparently, were contagious.
Rachel whispered, “Friends?”
“No.”
The old man grabbed the key and shoved it back toward me.
“Go through the rear.”
One of the men said, “Mrs. Blackwood.”
My blood went cold.
I turned.
“I’m not using that name.”
He smiled.
“That won’t matter long.”
Rachel moved beside me.
The second man locked the front door.
I looked at the old clerk.
He pointed beneath his desk.
A red button.
Alarm.
Good.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
The first man moved closer.
“Your husband wants you home.”
For one split second, betrayal tore through me.
Of course.
Of course Ethan had lied.
Then the man said, “He should’ve learned a long time ago not to lose what belongs to Blackwood.”
Something was wrong.
Ethan would say many terrible things.
He would never refer to himself as Blackwood like that.
“Which Blackwood?”
The man stopped.
Rachel looked at me.
I repeated.
“Which one?”
His smile disappeared.
That was answer enough.
Not Ethan.
The old man hit the alarm.
A siren screamed.
Everything happened fast.
Rachel threw a metal tray.
I grabbed the key.
The first man lunged.
The clerk shouted, “Back door!”
We ran.
The alley behind Archive House smelled like wet concrete and garbage.
Rachel pulled me left.
A car skidded to the curb ahead.
Black SUV.
My heart stopped.
The passenger door opened.
Marcus Hale stepped out.
Of course.
“Get in.”
I stared.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“You followed me?”
“No.”
“Then why are you in Seattle?”
“Because Ethan is trying very hard not to come himself.”
I almost laughed.
Behind us, the rear door of Archive House burst open.
One of the men appeared.
Marcus saw him.
His entire expression changed.
“Car. Now.”
This time I listened.
Rachel and I climbed in.
Marcus got behind the wheel and accelerated before the man reached the sidewalk.
I turned on him.
“You lied.”
“About?”
“Ethan said he wouldn’t send anyone.”
“He didn’t.”
“You’re his security chief.”
“He told me explicitly not to come.”
Rachel blinked.
“Then why are you here?”
Marcus looked at me in the mirror.
“Because Thomas Bennett called me before he died.”
The city blurred outside.
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Your father called me Monday night.”
“From the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Marcus’s eyes returned to the road.
“He told me if anything happened to him, I was to make sure you found locker 314 before the Blackwoods did.”
My mouth went dry.
“Ethan?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
“Then which Blackwoods?”
May you like
His hands tightened on the wheel.
“The ones Ethan thinks are dead.”
