Chapter 3 - The House Outside Phoenix

The flight took four hours.

Matteo did not speak for most of it.

Serena came.

Jonathan too.

Harold refused to stay behind.

So did I.

Matteo had tried to stop me.

I said:

“Peter knows I work in your house.”

He looked at me.

“That is exactly why you should stay.”

“Then I am already part of it.”

He had no answer.

The desert house stood forty minutes outside Phoenix.

Small.

Sand-colored.

No gates.

No guards.

No black cars.

Matteo stood at the door.

The watch was in his hand.

He knocked once.

Nothing.

Again.

Footsteps.

The door opened.

Antonio DeMarco stood there.

Sixty-eight.

Gray beard.

Thin.

One scar above his right eyebrow.

Matteo stopped breathing.

Antonio looked at him.

“Matteo.”

No one moved.

Then Antonio looked at the watch.

His eyes became wet.

“You brought it.”

Matteo’s voice broke.

“You gave it to Harold.”

“Yes.”

“You bought the ticket.”

“Yes.”

“You knew I would come?”

Antonio shook his head.

“I hoped.”

Matteo laughed once.

Painful.

“Seventeen years.”

Antonio looked down.

“I know.”

“No.”

Matteo stepped closer.

“You know the number.”

Antonio looked at him.

“You do not know what it was like to bury someone who was alive.”

Antonio’s face collapsed.

“No.”

Matteo held up the watch.

“You left this at 11:17.”

Antonio stared.

“I did.”

“You never came back.”

“I could not.”

Matteo’s voice sharpened.

“You always could.”

Jonathan looked away.

Antonio nodded.

“Yes.”

That answer stopped Matteo.

Antonio continued.

“At first, I could not.”

He swallowed.

“Later, I chose not to.”

Silence.

Serena closed her eyes.

Matteo stared at his father.

“Why?”

Antonio stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Matteo did not move.

“Answer.”

Antonio looked at Jonathan.

Then Harold.

Then his son.

“Because I believed your uncle would kill you.”

“You could have told me.”

“You were seventeen.”

“I stopped being seventeen.”

Antonio flinched.

Matteo continued.

“You missed eighteen.”

“Yes.”

“Nineteen.”

“Yes.”

“Twenty.”

Antonio looked down.

“Yes.”

“My first company.”

“Yes.”

“My mother’s funeral.”

Antonio stopped.

Matteo stared.

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

“You knew she died.”

“Yes.”

“And you stayed here.”

Antonio’s eyes filled.

“I went to the cemetery.”

Matteo froze.

“What?”

“At night.”

Harold looked surprised.

Antonio continued.

“I stood outside the gate.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened.

“That is supposed to make it better?”

“No.”

Antonio looked at him.

“Nothing makes it better.”

The room went quiet.

Then Matteo asked:

“Why did Peter come here?”

Antonio’s expression changed.

“You know?”

Jonathan handed him the photograph.

Antonio looked at it.

Then at Matteo.

“He said he came for you.”

Matteo laughed.

“Did you believe him?”

“At first.”

“What did he want?”

Antonio walked to a kitchen drawer.

Removed a folder.

Inside were printed emails.

Bank transfers.

Photographs.

Antonio said:

“Peter asked me to destroy the evidence against your uncle.”

Matteo looked up.

“Why?”

“He said your uncle was dying.”

Jonathan frowned.

“Dying?”

Antonio nodded.

“Cancer.”

Harold whispered:

“He never told anyone.”

Antonio continued.

“Peter said if the evidence surfaced, dozens of people would go down with him.”

Matteo looked at the files.

“Did you destroy it?”

“No.”

“Then why did Peter leave?”

Antonio’s face darkened.

“He did not leave empty-handed.”

Matteo stopped.

“What did he take?”

“A key.”

“To what?”

Antonio looked toward a locked cabinet.

“A deposit box.”

Jonathan stood.

“What was in it?”

“The original agreement.”

“What agreement?”

Antonio looked at Matteo.

“The one I made with your uncle at the river house.”

Matteo’s face hardened.

“You made a deal with him after he attacked you?”

Antonio nodded.

“He had a gun.”

“So?”

“He had your address.”

Matteo did not understand.

Antonio continued.

“Not the mansion.”

He looked at him.

“Your school.”

Matteo stopped breathing.

Antonio said:

“He told me if I went to the authorities, you would never make it home.”

Serena covered her mouth.

Matteo stared at the floor.

Antonio continued.

“I signed an agreement transferring control of several accounts to him.”

Jonathan whispered:

“And then?”

“Then he struck me.”

Matteo looked at the watch.

“11:17.”

“Yes.”

Antonio touched the scar above his eyebrow.

“The watch hit the floor.”

Harold spoke.

“I heard the shot.”

Matteo looked at him.

Harold nodded.

“Your uncle fired.”

Antonio continued.

“Jonathan got me out through the river entrance.”

Matteo looked at Serena’s father.

Jonathan nodded.

Antonio said:

“I was supposed to testify later.”

“But you did not.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Antonio looked at Jonathan.

Jonathan answered.

“The prosecutor disappeared.”

Silence.

Matteo frowned.

“Disappeared?”

Antonio nodded.

“Two days before I was supposed to meet him.”

Harold whispered:

“Victor.”

Antonio looked toward him.

“Yes.”

Matteo’s uncle.

Victor DeMarco.

The man who had raised Matteo after Antonio vanished.

The man still sitting in Matteo’s mansion.

Matteo looked at his father.

“And you thought hiding forever was safer.”

“Yes.”

“Until now.”

Antonio nodded.

“Until Peter came.”

Matteo looked at the cabinet.

“What made you change your mind?”

Antonio opened it.

Inside was a small red notebook.

He handed it to Matteo.

Matteo flipped through pages.

Names.

Dates.

Payments.

Then he stopped.

One entry.

P. RUSSO.

Seventeen years ago.

Matteo stared.

“Peter worked for Victor then.”

“Yes.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-six.”

Matteo kept reading.

Another payment.

Three months ago.

P. RUSSO — CONTACT A.D.

Matteo went pale.

Antonio said:

“Peter was not sent to destroy the evidence.”

Jonathan looked at him.

“Then why?”

Antonio’s voice became cold.

“He was sent to find out whether I was ready to come home.”

Matteo looked up.

“Why would Victor care now?”

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Antonio answered:

“Because Victor is not dying.”