Chapter 8
I had worked at Vale Club for nine months.
I knew the kitchens.
The staff stairs.
The laundry rooms.
The roof terrace.
I did not know there was an old hotel beneath us.
Rocco did.
His face went dark.
“My father built the club over it,” he said. “The hotel closed after a fire.”
Dominic laughed weakly.
“Family history finally becomes useful.”
Detective Hall ordered the basement searched.
Dominic was handcuffed when he tried to slip toward the service hall.
“Am I under arrest?” he snapped.
“For assault and obstruction,” Hall said. “We will keep adding.”
Dominic looked at me.
“You did this.”
I stared back.
“No. I picked up coins.”
The officers took him downstairs with us.
Rocco insisted on coming.
His limp showed now, but he refused the wheelchair.
Every step looked painful.
I walked beside him, ready to catch him though I doubted he would ever allow it.
In the lowest storage room, behind crates of old wine, we found a rusted service door.
Rocco used the key from the hidden drawer.
It opened.
Cold air breathed out.
The passage smelled like damp stone and secrets.
Detective Hall raised his flashlight.
A faded sign hung crooked on the wall.
VALE HOTEL LAUNDRY.
We moved deeper.
Then I saw something red on the floor.
A scarf.
Rocco picked it up with trembling hands.
“Alina.”
From somewhere ahead, a woman screamed.
Not loud.
Not strong.
But alive.
Rocco ran.
I ran after him.
We reached a locked room at the end of the hall.
Behind it, a voice cried, “Don’t let Dominic in!”
Rocco pressed both hands to the door.
“Alina?”
Silence.
May you like
Then a broken whisper.
“Rocco?”
