Chapter 3 - The Silver Sedan in the Alley and the Unlocked Front Door
The remainder of Thursday night passed in a surreal, dreamlike fog.
Cara poured wine, cleared plates, recited the dessert specials, and smiled on cue, but a significant portion of her consciousness remained tethered to table nine long after Vito Moretti had walked out of Bellario’s into the wet, sleety Chicago night.
When 1:30 AM finally arrived, Franco slammed the kitchen doors shut with a final, echoing crash, and Marco poked his head out of the office to announce that closing duties were complete.
Cara grabbed her coat from the employee locker room, her fingers trembling as she zipped her bag.
She pushed open the rear service door that led into the dark, cobblestone alleyway behind the restaurant.
The sleet had stopped, leaving behind a bitter, freezing mist that coated the pavement in a shimmering sheet of black ice.
And parked ten feet from the exit, idling quietly with its headlights off, was a sleek, silver sedan.
Marcus was leaning against the passenger fender, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his dark wool coat, watching the shadows with absolute stillness.
When Cara stepped out into the alley, he pushed off the fender, opened the rear door, and gestured smoothly toward the interior.
"Get in, Miss Vitali. It's freezing."
Cara stood her ground near the green metal dumpster, wrapping her coat tightly around her chest. "I have my own car. It's parked two blocks over."
"Your car's battery died ten minutes ago," Marcus replied without missing a beat. "The cold drained it. Mr. Moretti arranged for a tow truck to haul it to a garage on Michigan Avenue. It will be repaired and waiting by morning."
Cara stared at him, open-mouthed. "You towed my car?"
"We rescued your car," Marcus corrected mildly. "Now, please. Get in the car. My back is starting to stiffen up in this damp air."
Realizing arguing with Marcus was approximately as productive as arguing with a brick wall, Cara marched across the alley and climbed into the back seat of the silver sedan.
The interior smelled of leather, faint cedar, and rain. The heater was already humming softly, blowing warm air across her frozen ankles.
Marcus closed the door, slid into the front passenger seat, and the sedan glided silently down the alley toward Maple Street.
Neither of them spoke during the ten-minute drive.
When Marcus pulled up in front of her modest three-story apartment building, he killed the engine immediately.
Cara reached for the door handle. "Thank you for the ride. Tell Mr. Moretti... tell him I said thanks, but he didn't need to do all this."
"Mr. Moretti doesn't do things he doesn't need to do," Marcus said simply, keeping his eyes fixed on the windshield.
Cara pushed the door open, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and hurried toward the brick entrance of her building. She pulled out her keys, unlocked the heavy wooden outer door, and stepped into the dim, carpeted lobby.
She didn't look back to see if the silver sedan had pulled away.
She climbed the two flights of stairs to the second floor, her boots clicking softly against the worn runner.
She reached apartment 2B.
She pulled her key ring from her bag, inserted the key into the deadbolt, and stopped.
The deadbolt wasn't locked.
In fact, the brass knob turned freely beneath her hand without her even needing the key.
Every drop of blood drained instantly from Cara’s face.
She had locked that door. She always locked that door, double-checking the bolt every single night out of paranoid habit.
Slowly, with her heart hammering violently against her ribs, Cara pushed the door open.
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The overhead hallway light cast a pale, weak glow into the small entryway of her apartment.
And sitting on the armchair in her living room, casually flipping through a stack of mail she had left on the coffee table, was Daniel Marsh.
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