Chapter 3 - The Blocked Calls
The next envelope came from a rehabilitation specialist Vincent remembered meeting only once. Its seal had been broken, then resealed with transparent tape. A handwritten note inside said the specialist had tried to schedule an appointment five times.
Vincent laid the letter beside four others on his desk. Two were from old friends. One was from a lawyer whose number now appeared on a blocked-contact list. The fourth was an invitation to a family meeting supposedly declined on Vincent's behalf.
He'd spent years teaching people to look for discrepancies. Being the discrepancy himself had made him careless.
When Tessa arrived, he didn't ask her to close the curtains. He asked her to close the door.
“Does this have to do with the stack of angry-looking envelopes?” she asked.
“It has to do with someone reading my mail.”
She didn't touch the letters. “That sounds like something your lawyer should handle.”
“He's one of the numbers that was blocked.”
For a moment, the only sound was the low motor of his pressure-relief mattress.
“Then call him from the house phone.”
“Every phone in this place passes through my cousin's office. And I don't know who I can trust on the staff.”
Tessa folded her arms. “You can trust me to do the job you hired me for. Don't mistake that for agreeing to get mixed up in organized crime.”
“You're right.”
The answer caught her off guard.
Vincent motioned toward the desk. “There's a man named Salvatore Reyes. He was my friend when we were twelve and I still thought a brick was a reasonable birthday present. I need to know whether he's stopped calling or someone stopped him.”
“Why not ask the police?”
“Because I have things to answer for, too. If I involve the police, I intend to tell them the truth. I'm not ready to pretend that comes without consequences.”
It was the first time he'd acknowledged his own responsibility without hiding behind the word family. Tessa looked at the stack of letters again.
“I'll consider one call,” she said. “A phone call. Nothing more. If anybody follows me or threatens Ellie, I walk away.”
“Agreed.”
“And you don't buy my answer with money.”
His expression changed. “I was about to offer you money.”
“I know. That's why I'm saying it now.”
They spent the next hour on ordinary care. Tessa encouraged Vincent to transfer himself from bed to wheelchair using the method his therapist had taught him, remaining nearby in case he needed assistance. When he completed the transfer without help, she didn't congratulate him like a child. She asked whether he wanted his coffee in the study.
It was precisely the kind of respect he had stopped believing people were capable of offering him.
Before going downstairs, Tessa helped him prepare a written inventory of the missing correspondence. She didn't open private mail that wasn't addressed to her or collect anything she couldn't account for. Vincent dictated dates while she wrote, and together they noticed that the interruptions followed a pattern: calls from family allies were blocked, medical calls were diverted, and business mail reached the room only after Dominic had visited. It was still a pattern, not proof. Vincent disliked the distinction, but he was beginning to appreciate how much damage a careless accusation could cause.
“Were you always this patient?” she asked when he corrected a date for the fourth time.
“Absolutely not. I once fired a man for making me wait eleven minutes.”
“Did he deserve it?”
“No.” Vincent considered that. “I should find him.”
“Start with an apology before you offer him a job.”
He looked startled, then wrote the former employee's name in the margin. Tessa saw the gesture and knew their friendship would remain a complicated thing. A man could treat one person kindly and still owe an entire history of explanations to others.
Downstairs, she encountered Arya in the entrance hall. The fiancée was wearing cream silk and carrying the same leather folder Dominic had brought the week before.
“You seem to spend a long time upstairs,” Arya observed.
“His care plan takes as long as it takes.”
“He gets attached. It's best not to encourage him.”
Tessa adjusted her work bag. “I encourage him to make his own decisions. His therapist does, too.”
Arya's smile thinned. “Remember who pays your agency.”
“The agency pays me.”
“That's not quite what I meant.”
“I understood you.”
Outside, Tessa sat in her aging Honda until her hands stopped shaking. She needed the job. Ellie's prescriptions and the apartment lease made quitting almost impossible. But she'd grown up watching her mother take blame for every mess a wealthy employer made, and she recognized Arya's warning for what it was.
That night, Ellie caught her staring at an unused prepaid phone on their kitchen table.
“Is there a man?” Ellie asked.
“There's a problem.”
“That's how most of your men start.”
Tessa gave her sister a look. Ellie grinned, then winced as she shifted on the couch. Her next appointment was Thursday. They had enough money for the ride there, but not the ride home unless Tessa worked another Saturday.
“Are you in trouble because of the fancy house?” Ellie asked more quietly.
“Not yet.”
“Then stay out of it.”
“I intend to.”
She meant it when she said it.
By morning, another message had arrived on Tessa's personal phone from an unknown number. It contained a photograph of her standing beside her Honda outside the Corvino estate. Below it were seven words.
SOME DOORS SHOULD NEVER BE OPENED, TESSA.
She showed it to Vincent at their next appointment rather than conceal it. His face lost all color.
“That's my problem,” he said. “It doesn't get to become yours.”
“It's already mine. Somebody knows my name.”
He opened a locked drawer and removed an old drawing of Harbor House. Beneath it was a number written on a yellowing business card.
“Salvatore's private line,” he said. “If you decide to make the call, he can help get this warning documented. If you don't, I'll understand.”
May you like
Tessa looked at the number, then at the photograph on her phone. Someone had followed her home, or soon would.
She wasn't going to wait politely for the next message.
