Chapter 2 - The Photograph Taken Before I Met Her
I spent the next hour trying to convince Harlan Voss that the threatening photograph did not magically make me part of his world. He spent the same hour making it impossible for me to leave the hospital alone. “You can’t just keep me here,” I said while Belle remained in pediatric cardiac observation two floors above us. “I am not keeping you anywhere.” “There are two six-foot men standing in front of the elevator.” Harlan glanced toward them. “They’re protecting the floor.” “From me apparently.” One of the guards looked away, probably hiding amusement. Harlan rubbed a hand across his face. He looked exhausted now, the frightening control thinning beneath a father’s fear. “The photograph means whoever took Belle saw you before tonight. If you walk outside and they think you heard something from her, you become useful.” “To whom?” “I don’t know yet.” “That is incredibly comforting.” His mouth twitched. “You’re sarcastic when frightened.” “I’m sarcastic when awake.” A doctor interrupted us. Belle had suffered an episode related to her heart condition combined with cold exposure and severe stress, but she had responded to treatment. She was stable. Harlan closed his eyes and exhaled so deeply I realized he had probably been holding his breath since the garage. “Can I see her?” “Two minutes. Keep her calm.” He entered the room. I remained outside. Through the glass, I watched a man rumored to terrify Detroit sit beside his daughter’s hospital bed and carefully untangle a strand of hair from her oxygen tubing. Belle reached for his hand. Harlan bowed his head against her fingers. There was nothing powerful about him in that moment. Only love. I hated that it made him easier to see as human because humans are more dangerous to the heart than monsters.
Twenty minutes later Detective Alicia Warren from Detroit Police arrived. She had tired eyes, practical shoes, and no visible awe toward Harlan, which immediately made me like her. She interviewed me separately. I told her everything: missing bus, cough, Belle, phone call, SUVs, hospital. “Any reason someone connected to Mr. Voss would know you?” “No.” “Ever worked for him?” “No.” “Family connection?” “Absolutely not.” “Former boyfriend?” “I have enough problems without dating organized crime.” Warren almost smiled. “Anybody recently asking questions about you?” I thought of Dennis at the restaurant complaining that a man had called two days earlier asking whether I worked Tuesdays. I had assumed it was a customer wanting a particular server. My skin prickled. “Someone called the restaurant.” Warren’s pen stopped. “When?” I told her. “Description?” “Phone call. Dennis answered.” She wrote it down. Then she asked where I lived. I gave my address. She paused. “You still live there?” “Until Friday if capitalism has its way.” “Why?” I reluctantly admitted the eviction. Warren studied me. “You found a billionaire’s daughter while carrying an eviction notice.” “Please don’t make it sound like some inspirational television movie.” “Wasn’t going to.” “Good.” Harlan appeared in the doorway. “Her landlord filed eviction?” I glared at him. “Were you listening?” “The hallway is quiet.” “Forget what you heard.” “I forget very little.” “That sounds exhausting.” Warren stepped between the conversation before it became stranger. “Mr. Voss, I need names of everyone with access to Belle’s schedule and your vehicle fleet.” “Already being compiled.” “By police, not your people.” His eyes cooled. “My people will move faster.” “And contaminate evidence faster.” They stared at each other. I suddenly understood why Harlan had not been imprisoned: he was probably incredibly good at standing close to a line without obviously crossing it. “Detective,” he said, “someone took my six-year-old daughter.” “Which is exactly why you are going to let me investigate rather than starting a private war across Detroit.” His jaw tightened. “I have no intention of starting anything.” Warren gave him a look that said she had read his file. “Wonderful.”
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At three in the morning, Harlan’s security team found footage showing Belle leaving her after-school violin program with a woman wearing a school staff badge. The badge was fake. Belle entered a dark SUV voluntarily because the woman claimed Harlan had sent her. Twenty minutes later, traffic cameras showed the vehicle entering the Meridian garage. No footage showed it leaving because a maintenance camera had been disabled. Someone knew the building. Someone knew Belle’s heart condition. Someone knew Harlan’s security procedures. And someone had photographed me at work hours earlier. “Why me?” I asked. Harlan had no answer. Detective Warren did. “Maybe you’re not the target.” “Then why photograph me?” “Maybe because they expected you to become one.” That was worse. Warren called my manager at four fifteen. Dennis remembered the stranger on the phone. Male. Polite. Asked whether “Rue Callaway was still closing Tuesday nights.” Dennis confirmed. He even told the caller what time I usually left. I felt physically sick. “Dennis gave my schedule to a stranger?” Warren nodded grimly. “Apparently.” I wanted to march back to the restaurant and pour boiling coffee over him. Harlan’s face became expressionless. “What’s your manager’s full name?” “No.” “I asked—” “And I said no because whatever you’re imagining, don’t.” He leaned closer. “He endangered you.” “He is stupid. That’s not a capital offense.” “I wasn’t planning to kill him.” “The fact you had to clarify isn’t reassuring.” Detective Warren actually laughed.
By morning Belle woke and asked for pancakes, which the cardiologist considered an excellent sign. She also asked for me. I sat beside her while Harlan stood near the window. “Do you remember the lady who picked you up?” Warren asked gently. Belle nodded. “She said Daddy sent her because Marco got sick.” Harlan’s head turned. Marco DeLuca was his chief security officer. “What did she look like?” “Brown hair. Red coat. She smelled like Grandma’s flowers.” “What flowers?” Belle thought. “The white ones.” Harlan’s face changed. “Gardenias.” Belle nodded. “And she had a bird tattoo.” “Where?” “Here.” Belle touched the inside of her wrist. Marco arrived minutes later and showed Harlan security profiles. One former employee matched: Celia Crane, thirty-four, once personal assistant to Harlan’s late wife, Vanessa. The room fell silent when I learned Belle’s mother had died three years earlier in a car accident. Celia disappeared soon after. “Why would your late wife’s assistant kidnap Belle?” I asked. Harlan looked at the window. “Because Celia blamed me for Vanessa’s death.” “Were you responsible?” His eyes moved to mine. “No.” There was something in the answer that suggested the truth was not simple. Before I could ask, Belle tugged my hand. “Rue?” “Yes?” “Did you find Bunny?” “What bunny?” “My white bunny. I had him when the lady took me.” Harlan looked toward Marco. “She didn’t have a toy when we found her.” Belle’s eyes filled. “He has Mommy’s necklace inside.” Harlan’s entire body went still. “What?” Belle whispered, “I put it in Bunny because Grandma said Daddy couldn’t know.” The air changed. Harlan crouched beside her. “What necklace?” “Mommy’s blue one.” He looked almost afraid. “Who gave it to you?” “Grandma.” Harlan stood so quickly the chair moved backward. “My mother has been dead for nine years.” Belle shook her head. “Not your mommy. Mommy’s mommy.” Vanessa’s mother. Harlan stared at Marco. “Find Eleanor.” Marco answered, “Sir, Eleanor Vale died last year.” Belle began crying. “She didn’t! I saw her.” The adults froze. “When?” Harlan asked. Belle pointed at me. “At Rue’s restaurant.” I felt my stomach drop. Belle continued, “She was sitting behind Rue. She told me if anything happened, Bunny had the truth.” Harlan slowly turned toward me. I remembered the photograph taken inside the restaurant. The woman sitting behind Belle’s table was mostly cropped out. Detective Warren enlarged the image. An elegant silver-haired woman appeared in the background wearing a cream coat. Harlan whispered, “That’s Eleanor.” Vanessa’s mother—the woman everyone believed had died eleven months earlier—had been sitting inside my restaurant only hours before Belle was kidnapped. Then Warren enlarged the table in front of her. A folded envelope sat beside the woman’s glass. On the front, handwritten in blue ink, were two words. RUE CALLAWAY.
