Chapter 2 - The Three Conditions
Ambrose placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill beneath the damp saucer and stood up.
He did not offer his hand or check to see if she was following.
Rosalind trailed him out the glass door, the freezing autumn wind cutting straight through her thin polyester uniform.
A black sedan idle ten yards away under the flickering diner sign, its wipers clearing sheets of drizzle.
An older man with cropped silver hair sat behind the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
Rosalind stopped dead on the curb and pulled her arms tight across her chest.
“I am not getting into that car.”
Ambrose turned around on the pavement, his overcoat snapping in the harbor gale.
“Give me one rational reason why you would stay here.”
Rosalind counted on her trembling fingers.
“My shift does not end until six in the morning, and if I walk out, the manager will fire me.”
“My younger brother Miles is in a long-term care facility, and his medical bills are four months overdue.”
“The outstanding debt on my father’s ruined workshop is forty-one thousand dollars, and I have paid every penny of interest myself for six miserable years.”
“This pathetic life is the only thing I have left, and it belongs to me.”
Ambrose listened without breaking eye contact or showing the slightest shred of pity.
“Your father did not die in an accidental electrical fire, Rosalind.”
The words hit her like a physical blow to the sternum.
Six years ago, the city investigators had handed her a single typed paragraph blaming an ancient distribution panel.
They had sealed the case before the ashes were cold.
Ambrose reached into his coat and produced a thick manila folder bound by black twine.
“I will come with you,” Rosalind whispered, her fingernails digging into her palms until she felt skin break.
“On three conditions.”
Ambrose raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“First, I am coming because you need something from me, not because I am a stray dog you decided to rescue.”
“Second, you show me every shred of truth you have about my father’s death, without shielding me from the ugly parts.”
“Third, if you lie to me even once, I will walk away, and you will never find me again.”
Ambrose looked at her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Agreed.”
“You answered too quickly.”
A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
“I answered quickly because honesty is the only promise I find difficult to keep.”
She climbed into the leather interior of the sedan, the door clicking shut like the heavy door of a vault.
Ambrose laid the manila folder across her knees.
Inside was an eleven-page internal arson report that had never seen a courthouse.
Page two displayed a hand-drawn diagram of Warren Halloway’s historic book restoration workshop.
Three dark circles marked three distinct corners of the room.
The investigator had written in blue ink that all three ignition sources burned simultaneously using high-grade aviation kerosene.
On page seven, a handwritten note recommended the immediate transfer of the case to homicide.
Rosalind trace her thumb over the yellowed page, her breathing shallow and ragged.
Then her eyes dropped to the bottom margin of the final page, where the investigator had stamped the official intake seal.
Sketched beside the stamp was a custom signet mark shaped like a coiled viper biting its own tail.
May you like
Rosalind froze as she looked down at Ambrose Raldi’s right hand resting casually on the leather seat.
The exact same viper was carved into the heavy silver ring on his pinky.
