Chapter 5 - The Ghost of the Past
The paper was old. The ink was slightly faded, typed out on an old mechanical typewriter rather than printed from a modern computer terminal.
At the top of the page was a police evidence header from the Chicago Police Department, dated fourteen years ago: CASE FILE #094-B: THE WATERFRONT FIRE.
My eyes scanned the text, reading the summary paragraph:
“On the night of November 14, 2012, a controlled arson fire consumed the Miller Shipping Warehouse at Pier 21. Investigation confirmed total structural loss. Property records indicate the warehouse was co-owned by Arthur Miller and Vincent Costa. While Costa escaped the premises prior to ignition, financial audits reveal insurance payout fraud totaling $4.2 million, distributed exclusively to Costa holdings. Arthur Miller was reported missing and presumed dead inside the blaze; his body was never recovered. Surviving immediate family: none recorded, except a minor daughter placed into state foster care under an altered surname.”
My breath stopped. The ballroom around me seemed to spin into a blur of sound and light.
Arthur Miller.
That was my father’s name.
Before the foster homes. Before the endless state-funded social workers. Before I changed my last name from Miller to Mave—dropping my surname entirely and using my middle name as my first—to disappear from the wreckage of my childhood.
I looked up from the paper. My hands were shaking so violently that the heavy cream stationery rattled against my fingers.
I looked at Vincent Costa.
The man who had hired me three years ago without checking my references too closely. The man who had placed me at the desk directly outside his private office. The man who had watched over me, promoted me, and kept me tethered to his side.
“You...” I whispered, the word catching in my throat like broken glass. “You knew who I was. From the very first day.”
Vincent took a slow step forward, his hands opening slightly at his sides in a rare gesture of surrender. “Mave, let’s get out of here. I’ll explain everything in the car—’’
“Don't touch me!” I shouted, stepping back as tears of shock and betrayal stung the corners of my eyes.
Several nearby guests turned their heads to look at us, murmuring softly, but Vincent shot them a single, lethal glare that made them instantly turn back to their champagne glasses.
“You burned my father’s warehouse,” I said, my voice shaking with a rage I had buried for fourteen years. “You killed him for the insurance money. And then... what? You felt guilty? You tracked me down in the foster system and hired me to be your secretary so you could keep an eye on your guilt pet?!”
“No,” Vincent said, his deep voice cracking with an intensity that cut straight through my anger. “No, Mave. That is not what happened.”
“Then tell me the truth!” I demanded, holding the police report up in his face. “Tell me why Marcus called you Vinny! Tell me why my father’s blood is written all over your balance sheets!”
Before Vincent could answer, the heavy mahogany doors at the entrance of the ballroom burst open.
May you like
Three armed men in black tactical gear poured into the room, raising suppressed submachine guns into the air.
And in the lead, walking with a slow, mocking stride, was Marcus—the man with the scar.
