Chapter 11 - No More Rescues

For two days, Natasha did not speak to Matteo.

She spoke to lawyers.

That was better.

Brooks connected her with a federal victim-witness attorney and an independent domestic violence advocate named Priya Shah.

Priya never told Natasha what to do.

That was the first reason Natasha trusted her.

“What outcome do you want regarding Richard personally?” Priya asked.

Natasha stared at the legal pad between them.

“I want him to stop being able to reach me.”

“That can mean several things.”

“Restraining order.”

“Good.”

“I want the threat documented.”

“Good.”

“I want the bruises documented too.”

“Good.”

“And I want my belongings removed from the apartment before he can touch them.”

Priya nodded.

“We can arrange a supervised retrieval.”

Natasha swallowed.

“I also want to testify if the transplant case needs me.”

Priya’s pen paused.

“Because you feel obligated?”

“Because he admitted he approached me for my father’s records.”

“That is evidence. But it is still your choice.”

“I choose it.”

The phrase felt strange.

Strong.

Later that afternoon, Natasha returned to the apartment with two federal agents, Priya, and Elena.

Richard was prohibited from entering under a temporary protective order.

The apartment looked different now.

Not dangerous.

Small.

His shoes by the door.

His expensive coffee machine.

The gray sofa he had chosen because he said her yellow one looked juvenile.

Natasha walked through rooms that contained the archaeology of her disappearance.

In the closet, her clothes occupied one quarter of the space.

In the office, every framed photograph showed Richard’s hospital awards.

Her restoration certificates had been moved into a drawer.

She found them.

Elena held a box.

“Take them.”

“I am.”

They packed for three hours.

Then Natasha found a folder behind Richard’s tax documents.

Her name was on the tab.

Inside were photocopies of her old passports, bank statements, employment records, her father’s probate file, and private therapy invoices from four years earlier.

She sat on the floor.

Elena crouched beside her.

“He had your therapy records?”

“I never gave him these.”

“Did you use his insurance?”

“No.”

One invoice had a fax header.

CASTELLANO MEDICAL ADMINISTRATION.

Natasha felt nauseated.

“He accessed them through the hospital.”

Priya photographed everything.

“That may be a separate privacy violation.”

Natasha turned another page.

A handwritten list.

MUSIC BOX

BLUE BIRDS

MIRIAM FELD

OLD OFFICE

PRAGUE AUNT

MUSEUM STORAGE

Richard had spent years searching.

Elena whispered, “Jesus.”

There were dates beside each line.

The first entry was six years ago.

Two weeks after their first date.

Natasha began to laugh.

Not because it was funny.

Because grief sometimes took the nearest exit.

“He bought me flowers that week.”

Elena sat beside her.

“He brought peonies to the museum. I thought he remembered they were my favorite.”

“Maybe he did.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Yes.”

Natasha found another sheet.

A monthly summary of her movements.

Lunch with Miriam.

Phone calls to her aunt.

Visits to storage.

Richard had tracked her.

Every month.

For six years.

At the bottom of one page was an initial.

P.C.

Paul Castellano.

Brooks arrived twenty minutes later.

“This is significant.”

“Significant?”

“It suggests coordinated surveillance.”

“By a deputy police chief.”

“Yes.”

Natasha looked around the apartment.

“I lived inside an investigation.”

Brooks said nothing.

“I thought I was in a relationship. He was conducting an investigation.”

Elena took her hand.

Natasha pulled away instinctively, then apologized.

Elena shook her head.

“No apology.”

Natasha nodded.

No apology.

They finished packing.

At the door, Natasha saw the engagement photograph on the console.

Richard in black tie.

Natasha in cream silk.

His hand around her waist.

She remembered the photographer saying, Closer.

Richard had tightened his grip until she stopped breathing.

She picked up the frame.

Elena asked, “Taking it?”

“No.”

Natasha removed the photograph.

On the back, Richard had written:

Finally mine.

She handed it to Brooks.

“Evidence.”

Outside, Matteo waited across the street.

Natasha stopped.

Elena muttered, “Want me to remove him?”

“No.”

Natasha crossed alone.

Matteo stayed by his car.

“I was told not to approach the building.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To give you something.”

He held out a sealed envelope.

She did not take it.

“What?”

“My written statement about the night at Marea. What I heard. What I saw. I signed it before a federal agent.”

“Why give it to me?”

“Because your attorney may need it for the protective order.”

Natasha took the envelope.

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

She started to walk away.

“Tasha.”

She spun.

“Do not call me that.”

He lowered his eyes.

“You’re right.”

“What did you want?”

“To say I’m sorry.”

“For which part?”

“For recognizing you and not telling you immediately.”

“That’s a start.”

“For letting my need to understand Adrian pull me into your decisions.”

“Keep going.”

“For believing that because Richard was dangerous, I automatically became safe.”

That stopped her.

Matteo looked at her.

“I am not your rescue.”

“No.”

“And I should not have tried to be.”

Natasha held the envelope.

“What are you, then?”

“A witness.”

She nodded slowly.

“That I can use.”

For the first time, the space between them felt honest.

Not romantic.

Not safe.

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But honest.

It was enough for that day.