Chapter 2 - The Shadow of Anonymous Care
“An anonymous donor,” the receptionist at P.S. 132 repeated, pushing a receipt across the counter toward Eleanor Hayes. “Paid in full for the entire academic year. Hot lunches, morning breakfast, and the afternoon snack program.”
Eleanor stared at the paper. Her knuckles were swollen from the arthritis that made opening jam jars a twenty-minute ordeal, but her eyes were sharp, dark, and suspicious. “There is no such thing as an anonymous donor in Sunset Park, Mrs. Vance. People around here don't give away three hundred dollars without wanting their name painted on a plaque.”
“Well, the wire transfer came from a private foundation in Manhattan,” Mrs. Vance replied with a shrug. “The bank verified it. Lily’s account has a balance of four hundred and fifty dollars. You don't have to pack those dry peanut butter sandwiches anymore, Eleanor.”
Eleanor didn't smile. She took the paper, folded it neatly into four quarters, and tucked it into her worn coat pocket. When she walked out to the school yard to wait for the three o'clock bell, she didn't stand with the other mothers near the yellow brick wall. She stood near the iron fence, her gaze sweeping the street.
A black town car was parked near the corner of 4th Avenue. It had been there twice this week.
When Lily ran out through the double doors, her backpack bouncing against her spine, her face lit up at the sight of Eleanor. “Grandma! We drew trees today! Mine has seven red apples!”
“Did it, sweetheart?” Eleanor smoothed Lily’s hair, her thumb brushing gently against the crescent scar beneath the little girl's right eye. It was an instinctual gesture—a check to make sure the child was real, still here, still hers. “Come on. Let's walk fast today.”
“Is it cold?”
“No,” Eleanor whispered, looking back at the black car. “It's just getting late.”
Across the street, inside the tinted glass of the sedan, Dominic Moretti watched the old woman wrap a red scarf around the child's neck. He watched the way Eleanor’s hands trembled, not just from the cold, but from an overwhelming, possessive fear.
“She knows someone is watching,” Victor said from the driver's seat. “The old lady isn't stupid, Boss. She worked as an orderly at St. Vincent’s for thirty years before the hospital closed. She knows how the city works.”
“Did the DNA team get the comb from the school locker?” Dominic asked, his voice low, almost devoid of breath.
Victor hesitated, reaching into his jacket to pull out a sealed plastic bag containing a pink plastic hairbrush. “The custodian let us in after hours yesterday. We sent six follicles to Dr. Vance at the private lab in Fort Lee. He’s running the short tandem repeat analysis personally.”
Dominic took the plastic bag. He held it in his palm, feeling the almost weightless piece of plastic. Three years of searching through dark rivers, corrupted police reports, and dead-end tips had brought him to a schoolyard in Brooklyn, holding a pink comb.
“How long?” Dominic asked.
“Forty-eight hours for the full profile match against your reference sample,” Victor said softly. “Dominic... if it is her... how did she get out of the river?”
Dominic didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the little girl in the red scarf, who had stopped near a deli window to look at a display of chocolate cakes. She tapped her grandmother’s arm, pointing at the cake, and Eleanor shook her head with a sad, gentle smile, pulling her closer.
Dominic reached into his coat, pulled out a notepad, and wrote two words.
Buy it.
May you like
“Dominic—”
“Buy the entire bakery, Victor,” Dominic commanded, his voice suddenly thick with a dangerous, terrifying quiet. “Buy the bakery, buy the building they live in, pay off their back rent, and hire two discreet guards to sit on that roof tonight. If a single feather falls on that child before those lab results come back, I will burn this borough to the ground.”
