I hadn’t opened it in years.
He had kept dozens of notebooks.
Most had been destr0yed after his de:ath.
This one survived because it contained nothing especially important.
At least, that’s what I’d believed.
I turned through the pages.
My father’s handwriting was neat and precise.
October.
Fourteen years earlier.
I located the date.
October 14.
Three entries.
7:00 — Mercer.
9:30 — Russo.
12:00 — D.H. / G.T. / Pier.
My fingers froze.
D.H.
Daniel Hale.
G.T.
Gabriel Torres.
I stared at those initials.
The memory returned slowly.
Not in images.
In sensations.
Cold air.
Diesel fumes.
The scent of river water.
My father sitting inside a car.
Vincent smoking beside a loading dock.
Someone arguing.
Then—
Nothing.
I shut my eyes.
I had been twenty.
My father was still alive.
That year had been chaotic.
I had been desperately trying to prove that I belonged in the world he had created.
There had been endless meetings.
Warehouses.
Drivers.
Names.
But Gabriel?
Why couldn’t I remember Gabriel?
I turned the page.
The following morning contained a single sentence.
Russo says G.T. agreed.
Agreed to what?
I flipped ahead.
Nothing.
Then back.
Another note appeared from one week earlier.
G.T. wants out.
My pulse shifted.
Out of what?
I photographed the pages with my phone.
Then I called Anthony.
He answered after the second ring.
Anthony Leone was sixty-one and had worked for my father long before he worked for me.
He was among the few men still alive who remembered the years I’d spent pretending I understood what I was doing.
“Boss?”
“Were you working with my father fourteen years ago?”
There was a pause.
“I worked with your father for twenty-three years.”
“October fourteenth.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“What about it?”
“Pier Seventeen.”
Silence.
I leaned back.
Interesting.
“You remember.”
“I remember plenty of things.”
“Gabriel Torres.”
Silence again.
Then Anthony asked, “Where did you hear that name?”
That was enough of an answer.
“Come to the house.”
“It’s past midnight.”
“I know.”
Anthony sighed.
“I’ll be there.”
He ended the call.
I remained inside the darkened office.
Five minutes later, a quiet knock sounded.
My hand moved toward the drawer automatically.
Then Maria’s voice came through the door.
“Daniel?”
I opened it.
She stood barefoot in the hallway, still wearing the same clothes.
“Sofia?”
“Asleep.”
“What is it?”
