Chapter 4: What Damian Had Been Looking For
Damian was standing when she reached the table.
He had not sat back down.
His jacket was folded over the chair and his eyes went straight to the spoon the moment she came through the partition.
"Sit down," he said.
"I'll stand."
He studied her face.
Whatever he saw there made him pull out the chair across from his and sit in it himself, leaving her the power position.
Tessa stayed on her feet.
"Laurent Delacroix's father b*rned down Rowe's House," she said.
"Eighteen years ago.
My grandfather d*ed in that fire.
You already knew, didn't you."
Damian did not flinch.
He did not look away.
"I suspected," he said.
"I couldn't prove it."
"Is that why you came tonight?"
"Partly."
"What's the other part?"
He was quiet for a moment.
The piano had stopped.
The restaurant was thinning out, tables emptying, servers moving slower.
"Moses Rowe saved my life," Damian said.
"I was eleven years old.
I grew up two blocks from Rowe's House.
My father was not a good man.
There were nights I had nowhere to go." He looked at the table.
"Moses fed me.
Not once.
For three years, almost every night.
He never asked questions.
He never told anyone.
He just — fed me." He paused.
"When the restaurant b*rned, I was thirteen.
By the time I understood what had happened, I was old enough to start asking questions.
But the people who knew the truth were either gone or protected."
"Gerard Delacroix."
"He had money.
He had lawyers.
He had the block on Fulton Street, which he sold two years after the fire for four times what Moses had been offered." Damian's voice remained level.
"I have been building a case for eleven years.
Property records.
Insurance documents.
A witness who worked for Gerard at the time and has been willing to talk, but only if I can corroborate the physical evidence."
Tessa looked down at the spoon.
"This is the physical evidence."
"It was found in the fire investigation report.
Listed as recovered from the scene.
Then it disappeared from the evidence log." Damian's eyes were steady.
"Gerard took it.
The same way he took everything else."
"And it ended up in Laurent's kitchen."
"Laurent inherited his father's habits along with the restaurant."
Tessa set the spoon on the table between them.
The tarnished silver caught the light.
"What happens if you get what you need?" she asked.
"Gerard Delacroix faces a charge of arson resulting in d*ath.
At his age, with his health, that means the rest of his life." Damian looked at the spoon.
"Laurent faces charges as an accessory after the fact for concealing evidence.
Vesper gets investigated.
The Fulton Street sale gets examined for fr@ud."
"And you."
"I get to keep a promise I made to a d*ad man."
Tessa was quiet for a long moment.
"Laurent sent someone to photograph my mother tonight.
To scare me."
Damian's expression did not change.
But something behind it did.
"Where is she now?"
"Queens.
Outside her apartment."
He reached into his jacket and took out his phone.
He sent one text.
Twelve words.
Tessa could not read them from where she stood.
"She'll have company within ten minutes," he said.
"People I trust."
"I don't know if I trust you."
"That's reasonable."
"You came here tonight knowing this might happen.
Knowing Laurent would panic.
You used me."
Damian did not deny it.
"I came here tonight not knowing you existed," he said.
"The gumbo was — I needed to be in this building.
I needed Laurent rattled.
I did not plan for a waitress to cook Moses Rowe's recipe from memory using his grandfather's technique and his grandmother's roux." He paused.
"That part was not strategy.
That part was something else entirely."
Tessa picked up the spoon.
"I want to be in the room when you use this."
"That's not—"
"I want to be in the room, Mr.
Voss.
My grandfather d*ed for this piece of silver.
I am not handing it to you and going home."
Damian looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
Behind them, Laurent appeared at the edge of the dining room.
He saw the spoon on the table.
He saw Damian's face.
May you like
He saw Tessa standing.
He took out his phone.
