Roman flinched as if she had slapped him.
Outside, the market had begun to breathe again, but quietly. People moved around the clam stall in lowered voices. Through the fogged kitchen window, Roman could see the gray Atlantic shifting restlessly behind the roofs.
Evelyn opened a drawer and removed a small wooden box.
Roman recognized it before she lifted the lid.
Clara had kept one like it on the nightstand in the apartment he had rented under a false name, back when he had still believed he could have one clean thing in his life.
Evelyn took out a folded photograph.
She slid it across the table.
Roman picked it up.
The world narrowed.
Clara Pruitt stood on a beach in a blue coat, hair blown across her mouth, one hand resting on the unmistakable curve of a pregnant belly. She was laughing at whoever had taken the picture.
On her wrist was the bracelet with the anchor charm.
Roman’s fingers tightened around the photograph until it bent.
Mara leaned sideways, curious. “That’s my mother.”
Not properly until then.
He had seen a bold child, an impossible age, a bracelet, a clue. Now he saw the shape of Clara’s eyes in Mara’s face. The stubborn lift of her chin. The tiny crease between her brows when she was angry.
Nine years of grief cracked open inside him.
“She was pregnant when the car went over Blackwater Bridge,” Evelyn said. “She survived long enough to deliver.”
Roman’s breath stopped.
Eli turned sharply from the door.
“No,” Roman said.
“No. The hospital record said—”
“The hospital record lied.”
The kitchen went silent except for the kettle ticking on the stove.
Evelyn sat down slowly. “A man came that night. Not a doctor. Not police. He wore a navy suit and expensive shoes. He told me Clara was dead. He told me the baby was dead. Then he said if I wanted to bury my daughter in peace, I would sign the release papers and leave Portland before morning.”
Roman’s eyes darkened.
“His name.”
Evelyn looked at Mara.
Mara had gone very still.
Roman noticed and forced his voice lower. “Please.”
Evelyn reached into the wooden box again and removed a business card, old and softened at the edges.
She placed it on the table.
Roman stared at it.
For the first time since entering the fish market, Eli Cross whispered a curse.
The name printed on the card was Matteo Vale.
Roman did not move.
He did not blink.
Matteo Vale had been Roman’s closest adviser for twelve years. He had stood beside Roman at Clara’s funeral. He had poured whiskey into Roman’s glass afterward and said, “Some losses must become armor.” He had handled the hospital calls. The police reports. The evidence bag with the bracelet.
Matteo Vale had told him Clara had no surviving family.
Matteo Vale had told him the baby had not lived.
Evelyn watched Roman’s face and understood the answer without asking.
“You know him.”
Roman’s voice came out flat. “Yes.”
Mara looked between them. “Is he bad?”
No one answered quickly enough.
That was answer enough.
A phone vibrated in Eli’s jacket.
He checked the screen, then looked at Roman with a face gone hard.
“Boss,” Eli said quietly, “Vale just called three times.”
Roman finally sat.
Not because he was calm.
Because his knees had nearly failed him.
Eli placed the phone on the table when it rang again.
Matteo Vale’s name glowed across the screen.
Mara squinted. “Why is he calling so much?”
Roman looked at the child who might be his daughter.
Then he answered.
“Matteo.”
The voice on the other end was warm, smooth, familiar. “Roman. I heard there was a scene at the market.”
Evelyn’s lips parted.
Eli’s expression turned lethal.
Roman kept his eyes on Mara. “News travels.”
“It does when a little girl insults you in public.”
Mara frowned. “I did not insult him. I corrected him.”
Roman almost smiled. Almost.
Matteo continued, “Come back to the house. Now. We have business.”
Roman’s voice remained calm. “What kind?”
A pause.
Then Matteo said softly, “The kind involving ghosts.”
Every muscle in Roman’s body went still.
Matteo knew.
Or worse — Matteo had always known this day might come.
Roman leaned forward. “Say her name.”
On the other end of the line, silence stretched.
Then Matteo laughed once.
“Clara was always careless with keepsakes.”
Evelyn put one hand over her mouth.
Roman’s face changed.
Not into rage. Rage was loud. Rage wasted movement.
This was worse.
This was the face men in Port Haven prayed never to see.
Mara whispered, “Mr. Roman?”
He looked at her, and for one brief second, the killer vanished. What remained was a man standing at the edge of a life stolen from him.
“Stay with your grandmother,” he said.
Mara’s chin lifted. “Are you going to apologize to my mother too?”
Roman closed his eyes.
When he opened them, they were wet.
“Yes,” he said. “If heaven allows me near her.”
Then Matteo’s voice came through the phone again, smooth as oil.
“Bring the bracelet, Roman. Bring the child too. We should settle what should have died nine years ago.”
The kitchen froze.
Eli reached for his weapon.
Roman ended the call.
Mara’s small hand closed around Evelyn’s wrist, covering the bracelet.
Roman stood.
“No one touches them,” he said.