Part 6
“Experimental compounds.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yes.”
She looked down at her hands.
“He called me because I worked there too.”
Vincent’s expression sharpened.
“As a waitress?”
Molly gave him a tired look.
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a toxicology researcher.”
Grant turned halfway around from the front seat.
Vincent did not move.
Molly continued.
“I spent nearly eight years studying how chemicals affect the nervous system. I was good at it.”
“Was?”
“My brother died in a car crash two days after he called me.”
Silence.
Molly’s jaw tightened.
“The police said he fell asleep at the wheel. Evan drank three coffees a day and was terrified of driving tired. He would pull into a gas station and sleep in the parking lot before taking that risk.”
“You didn’t believe the report.”
“No.”
“So you investigated.”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“The company accused me of stealing proprietary research. They destroyed my reputation before I could prove anything. By the time I understood what was happening, my professional credentials were gone, my accounts were frozen under a civil claim, and someone had broken into my apartment twice.”
Her voice became quieter.
“So Molly Harper, toxicologist, disappeared.”
“And Molly Harper, waitress, appeared.”
“I changed enough of my background to make nobody curious.”
Vincent looked toward her uniform.
“You chose a restaurant where people treat staff like furniture.”
“Exactly.”
Something dark moved across his face.
“Arthur treated you worse than furniture.”
Molly looked at him.
“You noticed that?”
“I noticed how quickly he insulted your body when he wanted everyone to stop listening to what you were saying.”
The words struck harder than she expected.
Molly glanced toward the window.
“People do that.”
“That does not make it insignificant.”
She forced a shrug.
“When you’re my size, strangers think your body is public evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Whatever they already want to believe.”
Vincent leaned back.
“And what did Arthur believe?”
“That I was sloppy. Slow. Stupid. Too big to belong in a room built for beautiful things.”
Vincent’s face remained unreadable.
“Was he right?”
Molly looked at him sharply.
He gestured toward her.
“You crossed that dining room faster than three armed men could stop you. You identified a threat none of us saw. Then you pinned a man twice as desperate as you against a table.”
His eyes held hers.
“So I’m asking whether Arthur was right.”
Molly felt heat crawl up her face.
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked down.
Vincent’s voice softened.
“Then stop repeating his judgment as though it were a measurement.”
The car fell silent.
Molly had no answer for that.
Vincent Hale’s residence occupied the upper floors of a glass tower overlooking Lake Michigan.
Molly expected dark marble, armed guards, and the oppressive luxury of a man determined to remind everyone he had money.
Instead, the penthouse surprised her.
It was expensive, certainly.
But it was also lived in.
A half-finished chess game sat near the windows.
An old photograph rested beside a leather chair.
Books covered an entire wall.
A woman in navy scrubs emerged from a hallway almost immediately.
“This is Dr. Natalie Brooks,” Vincent said. “She works with my family.”
Natalie took one look at Molly’s wrist.
“Kitchen accident?”
“Something like that.”
Natalie unwrapped the temporary dressing.
Her face tightened.
“This needs treatment.”
“I can tell you what not to use.”
Natalie looked up.
Vincent said, “Listen to her.”
Twenty minutes later, Molly sat at the kitchen island with her wrist cleaned and wrapped.
Natalie had asked precise questions, Molly had answered, and neither had attempted a miracle.
The injury would hurt for days, but it appeared manageable.
Grant entered carrying a tablet.
“We found Arthur Bell’s son.”
Arthur had been brought upstairs under guard.
He stood instantly.
“Where?”
Grant’s expression was grim.
“Storage facility near Cicero. He’s alive. Sedated, but alive.”
Arthur collapsed into a chair.
“My God.”
“Our people are bringing him to a private clinic.”
Arthur covered his mouth.
“Thank you.”
Grant continued.
“We also recovered a phone from the room.”
He set the tablet in front of Vincent.
“The messages came through prepaid devices, but one name appears repeatedly.”
Vincent read the screen.
His entire posture changed.
Molly noticed.
“Who?”
Vincent looked at Grant.
“Tell me this is wrong.”
“I checked twice.”
Arthur stared between them.
“What name?”
Grant answered.
“Caleb Dorsey.”
Molly’s stomach dropped.
The kitchen disappeared around her.
She barely heard Vincent asking who Caleb was.
Because Molly knew.
She knew far too well.
“Caleb Dorsey was senior operations director at the company where I worked.”
Everyone looked at her.
Molly slowly stood.
“He signed the report accusing me of stealing formulas.”
Grant’s expression darkened.
Vincent stared at the tablet.
“So tonight wasn’t simply about killing me.”
Molly felt suddenly cold.
“No.”
“Then what was it about?”
She looked at the bandage around her wrist.
“Finding me.”
Arthur shook his head.
“I never told anyone you worked at the restaurant.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Molly paced toward the windows.
“They knew enough to choose the one kitchen where I worked. They picked a substance they knew I might recognize.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“You think the attempt on my life was bait?”
“I think they wanted to know whether I was still alive.”
Grant swore softly.
May you like
Molly turned.
“If I stayed hidden, you would die. If I intervened, I would expose myself.”
