Chapter 9: Room Fourteen
Dolores was sixty, broad-shouldered, and moved through the service corridor like she owned every inch of it.
"Night shift supervisor is on the west wing," she said, not looking back at me.
"Carver — the man outside — he checked in with the front desk at nine-thirty, said he was a nephew.
We don't have him listed as an approved visitor.
I told him visiting hours were over.
He's been in his car since." She pushed through a stairwell door.
"Third floor."
"Thank you for doing this," I said.
"Your mother is a good woman.
She always says please and thank you and she remembers my grandchildren's names." Dolores kept moving.
"Whatever she needs."
Third floor.
The corridor was dim and quiet.
Room 14 was the fourth door on the right.
Dolores stopped outside it.
"I'll be at the end of the hall," she said.
"You've got fifteen minutes before I need to do my check."
I went in.
The room was small and warm.
The oxygen machine cycled softly.
My mother was asleep, her breathing shallow but steady, her hands folded on the blanket.
I stood there for a moment.
Then I went to the nightstand.
Pulled open the drawer.
Found the birthday card — a blue envelope, slightly worn at the corners, my handwriting on the front from three years ago.
Inside, in my mother's handwriting on the bottom of the card: *0467.*
The lockbox was on the closet shelf, exactly where I knew it was.
I entered the combination.
It opened.
Inside: a manila envelope, thick and sealed.
A USB drive taped to the inside of the lid.
And beneath both of those, a smaller sealed envelope with my name on it.
My name.
In my mother's handwriting.
I sat down on the edge of the chair beside her bed.
I opened the small envelope.
*Emily — if you're reading this, then things went the way I hoped they wouldn't have to.
I'm sorry I couldn't explain sooner.
I was afraid that knowing would put you in the middle of something I spent twenty years trying to keep you out of.*
*Margaret is the best person I've ever worked for.
What they did to her was wrong.
What Foss built on top of that wrong thing has hurt a lot of people for a very long time.*
*The documents in the big envelope are real.
I witnessed every one of them.
My statement is signed and dated.
A notary named Ruth Heller — she's retired now, lives in Evanston — she has a copy of the notarization on file.*
*Give everything to someone you trust.
Not the police.
Not yet.
Someone who can get it to the right federal office without Foss intercepting it.*
*I love you.
I'm proud of you.
You've been holding this family together since you were twenty-two years old and you never once complained about it.*
*Let someone help you for a change.*
*— Mom*
My mother's hand moved on the blanket.
I looked up.
Her eyes were open.
Tired and clear.
"You found it," she said.
"I found it."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Her breathing was slow.
"Is Margaret safe?"
"Yes."
"Good." She closed her eyes.
Opened them again.
"Adrian Moretti.
Is he the real thing?"
"I think so."
"His mother was a good woman too.
Vincent never deserved her." A faint sound that might have been a laugh.
"Foss introduced them.
Did you know that?
He introduced them because he wanted Vincent distracted." She paused to breathe.
"He's been managing that family for thirty years."
"Not anymore," I said.
She looked at me.
"No," she said softly.
"Not anymore."
May you like
I took her hand.
We stayed like that until Dolores knocked twice on the door.
