Chapter 3 - THE WAREHOUSE FIRE
I answered Preston’s call.
Roman’s expression did not change, but the entire room seemed to notice.
I put the phone on speaker.
“Eleanor.”
Preston sounded calm.
Too calm.
“What do you want?”
“You left your ring.”
“It is not mine anymore.”
“You’re emotional.”
“No. I was emotional when you tore my dress in front of five hundred people. Now I’m thinking clearly.”
A pause.
Then he laughed softly.
“Roman has always been good at making frightened people feel brave.”
Roman stood near the door.
He said nothing.
Preston continued.
“Is he there?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
I looked at Roman.
He shook his head once.
Do not give information.
I understood.
“What do you want, Preston?”
“To save you from a mistake.”
“You mean leaving the wedding?”
“I mean trusting a DeLuca.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“You should ask him why his brother died,” Preston said.
“I already did.”
Silence.
That surprised him.
I continued.
“And I know your family was involved.”
“My family was blamed. There’s a difference.”
“Do you know about the warehouse?”
Another pause.
Too long.
“What warehouse?”
I looked at Roman.
He heard it too.
The hesitation.
“You called me six minutes after the fire was reported,” I said.
Preston’s voice hardened.
“I called because you humiliated me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will your father?”
My entire body went cold.
Roman moved toward me.
I lifted one hand.
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s advice.”
“Then give better advice.”
Preston exhaled.
“You think Roman bought the DuPont debt to help you?”
“No.”
“Good. At least you’re not completely stupid.”
Roman’s eyes changed.
I ignored him.
“Why did he buy it?”
“Because your company has something he wants.”
“The terminal.”
A silence.
Preston recovered.
“So he told you.”
“He tells me more than you ever did.”
That landed.
His voice sharpened.
“You knew what marriage to me would do for your family.”
“I knew what you told me.”
“I offered stability.”
“You offered ownership.”
“I offered survival.”
“And you threatened Chloe.”
“That was a reminder.”
“No. It was a threat.”
I took a breath.
“You lost me the moment you thought fear counted as consent.”
Roman looked at me.
Not approving.
Not pitying.
Something else.
Recognition.
Preston’s voice dropped.
“Come back before this gets worse.”
“It already got worse.”
“Eleanor.”
“No.”
I ended the call.
My hand shook afterward.
Roman took the phone from me gently and set it on the table.
“You did well.”
“Do not congratulate me like I passed an exam.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Recognizing that he failed to scare you.”
“He did scare me.”
Roman’s gaze held mine.
“Courage is not the absence of that.”
I looked away.
Naomi found me a black dress from the hotel boutique. Simple. Knee length. Nothing about it resembled a bride.
I changed in the bedroom.
When I removed the wedding gown, I stood for a long time looking at the torn seam.
It felt like evidence from another life.
I left it on the bed.
No dramatic gesture.
No burning.
No cutting.
Just fabric.
When I returned to the living room, Roman had changed nothing except his jacket. Mine—the one he had given me—was folded over a chair.
My father wanted to come to the warehouse.
Roman refused.
Dad argued.
Roman refused again.
Then I said, “Stay with Chloe.”
Dad stopped.
He looked at me.
“You should stay too.”
“I need to see what was lost.”
“You nearly married a man you hate because of my company.”
“I know.”
“Let it die.”
The words shocked me.
DuPont Maritime had been in our family for four generations.
My great-grandfather started with two cargo barges.
My grandfather expanded after the war.
My father spent thirty years turning it into a regional company.
“Do you mean that?”
He looked exhausted.
“I mean I would rather lose every ship, office, house, and account than watch you make another decision because you think my name is your responsibility.”
My throat tightened.
I hugged him.
For the first time that day, I cried.
Quietly.
Into his shoulder.
He held me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know.”
It did not erase what happened.
But it was a beginning.
Roman waited near the elevator until I was ready.
The drive to New Bedford took less than an hour with the kind of route planning normal people did not have.
The sky was dark when we reached the port.
Fire trucks crowded the road outside our records warehouse.
Smoke poured through broken roof panels.
Employees stood behind barriers.
I recognized nearly all of them.
They recognized me too.
Their faces shifted when they saw Roman.
That bothered me.
“Why do they know you?”
“Most people in ports know me.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is tonight.”
I gave him a look.
He almost smiled.
A fire captain met us.
“No entry.”
Roman showed credentials from the holding company.
The captain looked at them, then at him.
Still no.
Good.
At least somebody treated Roman like a human being.
I approached.
“I’m Eleanor DuPont. Those are company records.”
The captain softened slightly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Structure isn’t stable.”
“What survived?”
“Unknown.”
One of our night supervisors came running.
“Ms. DuPont.”
“Martin.”
He looked shaken.
“Thank God.”
“What happened?”
“Alarm went off at six thirteen. By the time we reached the warehouse, flames were already through the east section.”
“Anyone inside?”
“No.”
“Cameras?”
“Security office says the feed was cut.”
Roman spoke.
“Locally?”
Martin looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
I introduced them.
Martin’s expression tightened at Roman’s name.
Again.
Recognition.
Roman noticed.
“How do you know me?” he asked.
Martin hesitated.
“I worked at Pier Seven twelve years ago.”
Roman went still.
Daniel’s port.
I remembered.
Roman stepped closer.
“For whom?”
“Kensington Logistics.”
Everything changed.
Martin looked toward me.
“I didn’t know what they were doing then.”
“What were they doing?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“Changing container numbers.”
Roman’s face became stone.
“Whose?”
“Imports coming through Halifax.”
“What cargo?”
“I was never told.”
“Who gave orders?”
Martin looked around.
People were watching.
Roman lowered his voice.
“You asked Ms. DuPont for help. Help her.”
Martin breathed out.
“A man named Walter Kincaid.”
Roman’s expression changed.
I noticed.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“My father’s former accountant.”
That was not the answer I expected.
“Former?”
“He disappeared after Daniel died.”
Martin nodded rapidly.
“He’s not dead.”
Roman stared at him.
“When did you see him?”
“Three months ago.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
I felt cold.
“At DuPont?”
Martin nodded.
“He met with Mr. Halpern.”
Our chief financial officer.
I turned toward the burning warehouse.
“Halpern?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I asked later. Mr. Halpern told me it was an insurance consultant.”
Roman’s phone came out immediately.
He called someone.
“Find Arthur Halpern.”
A pause.
“Now.”
He ended the call.
I stared at Martin.
“Why didn’t you tell my father?”
“I thought it was legitimate.”
“After what you just told us about Kensington?”
“I have a family.”
The answer silenced me.
Fear again.
It had built this entire disaster brick by brick.
Mine.
My father’s.
Martin’s.
Maybe even Roman’s.
The fire captain approached.
“We found something.”
He held a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a black metal drive.
“Fire crew found it behind a loose wall panel in the security office. It looks deliberately hidden.”
Martin frowned.
“I’ve never seen that.”
Roman did not touch it.
“Police evidence now?”
“Until investigators clear it.”
Roman nodded.
Surprisingly compliant.
The captain walked away.
I looked at him.
“You expected to take it?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“I expected you to think I would.”
I sighed.
“You are exhausting.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Smoke rolled across the lights.
An ambulance passed behind us.
I shivered.
Roman removed his coat.
“I’m not cold.”
“You are.”
“I’m angry.”
“They overlap.”
I took the coat anyway.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes.”
His eyes shifted to me.
“When?”
A pause.
“Apartment?”
Another pause.
“Don’t touch anything.”
He ended the call.
“Halpern?”
Roman nodded.
“His apartment was cleared out.”
“When?”
“Neighbor saw him leave with luggage yesterday.”
“Before the wedding.”
“Yes.”
My mind raced.
“Then he knew the debt sale might happen.”
“Or knew something else was happening today.”
“Such as?”
Roman looked toward the warehouse.
“The destruction of records.”
A firefighter shouted.
A section of roof collapsed inward.
Everyone stepped back.
I watched flames consume decades of paper.
“Can we rebuild the manifests digitally?”
“Some.”
“Customs keeps copies.”
“Yes.”
“Ports too.”
“Yes.”
“Then why burn this place?”
Roman turned to me.
“Because not everything in a company is filed with Customs.”
I understood.
“Internal notes.”
“Hand corrections. Employee sign-offs. Exception reports.”
“Things that show who changed what.”
“Yes.”
A police detective approached.
“Ms. DuPont?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Harris.”
We shook hands.
“I need to ask you about threats made against your company.”
I glanced at Roman.
The detective noticed.
“Mr. DeLuca.”
“Harris.”
They knew each other.
Of course they did.
Harris looked at me.
“Can we speak privately?”
Roman stepped away before I asked.
Another detail.
He gave me space.
I spent twenty minutes answering questions.
I told Harris about Preston.
The debt.
The wedding.
The call.
He wrote everything down.
When I mentioned Walter Kincaid, he stopped.
“Spell that.”
I did.
His pen stopped again.
“You know him?”
Harris looked toward Roman.
Then back at me.
“Kincaid was a person of interest in a homicide twelve years ago.”
“Daniel DeLuca?”
Harris’s face tightened.
“I can’t discuss an open investigation.”
“Open after twelve years?”
“It was never formally closed.”
I looked at Roman.
He stood thirty feet away speaking to no one.
Watching the fire.
For the first time, I understood why he bought the debt today.
Not only to stop Preston.
He believed something had started moving again.
Something tied to his brother.
Harris closed his notebook.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know a woman named Sofia Maren?”
“No.”
Roman turned his head.
Even from thirty feet away, he had heard.
Harris noticed.
“Mr. DeLuca does.”
I looked at him.
Roman came closer.
“Why are you asking about Sofia?”
Harris studied him.
“Because her body was identified this afternoon.”
Roman went completely still.
“Where?”
“Harbor motel outside Quincy.”
The smoke, sirens, wedding, debt—all of it seemed to vanish behind Roman’s face.
He looked genuinely shaken.
“Who was she?” I asked.
Harris answered.
“Daniel DeLuca’s fiancée.”
Roman closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
When he opened them, he looked at me.
“This wasn’t about the wedding.”
I already knew.
He continued.
“Someone is reopening every grave my family tried to bury.”
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed me walking out of Trinity Church in Roman’s jacket.
May you like
Beneath it, one sentence.
YOU WALKED OUT WITH THE WRONG MAN.
