Outside, the rain began to tap against the glass of the high window.

A siren wailed in the distance, somewhere down Broad Street.

The smell of garlic, roasted oregano, and old floor wax drifted up from the kitchen below.

I could hear the faint, rhythmic clinking of dishes.

Mr. Alvarez was still downstairs, washing the heavy cast-iron pans.

He had been working here since 1980.

He must have seen my mother every day.

He must have known the truth, or at least suspected it.

“We need to get these out of here,” Denise said.

She opened her leather briefcase and slid the folder inside.

“If Nico finds out we have these, he won’t just call the police.”

“I know what Nico is capable of,” I said.

I thought of Elise, who had given me her shift tonight so I could get into the back office.

She was probably still on the floor, carrying heavy trays of steaks to wealthy men in expensive suits.

She had no idea what she had helped me uncover.

If the Romanos realized I was Lila’s daughter, they wouldn’t just come after me.