ALEXANDER STEPPED OUT OF his dark SUV onto the cracked pavement, staring at a three-story brick building that looked like it would fall over if he breathed on it too hard. Sirens blared in the distance, and the stench of garbage singed his nostrils. As a train drew close, he glanced over his shoulder to see the tracks just a hundred yards from where he stood. There was a small park across the street, the swing set in serious need of repair. He hoped no children actually played there.
Another sleepless night had come and gone as he drove around the city, waiting to hear from Simpson. He had visited Landon’s grave, a lone American flag and wreath marking the resting place of a casket filled with only memories. He had driven past Mischa’s townhouse in Arlington, flowers and candles lit in memoriam filling her small front yard. He drove by the house in Revere where Mischa and Landon lived the first several years of their lives. It looked like every other house in the working-class suburb of Boston. Two stories. Yellow aluminum siding. Gray shingle roof. But inside those four walls lived the ghost of a little boy forced to become a man at an early age, which molded him into the determined leader Alexander met during SEAL training…or, as it was more commonly referred to as, BUD/S.
As the hours passed, he thought about Landon and the bond they had formed over the years. He thought about Mischa and all the good she had done in the world. He thought about Rayne, hoping she had finally found peace after Landon’s death, but fearing she hadn’t. Mostly, he thought about his father. Martin’s warning played on repeat as night gave way to dawn. Alexander wondered whether he had a point, whether he was following the same path as his father. He didn’t want to think that was the case, but he really didn’t know his father that well. When he was growing up, his father had let his work consume him and was barely home. Alexander had made a point to always be there whenever Olivia or Melanie needed him, working from his home office many times instead of making the commute into the city. He wanted to believe he always put them first.
Except for yesterday morning, a voice in his head reminded him.
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples. “That was different,” he said to himself.
A truck zoomed by, slamming down into a pothole before continuing its journey up the road. Alexander snapped out of his thoughts, staring at the brick building once more.
Squinting, he noted a faded 301 painted on the mailbox, then double-checked the text from Simpson to verify he was in the correct place. It had taken him a lot longer to track down an address for Rayne than either one of them had anticipated. From what he was able to find out, she had been evicted from her rental house around the same time she lost the bakery. Alexander had assumed she would have been able to live quite comfortably for several years on what the bakery sold for. Looking at the decrepit building, though, all he could think was she must have spent the money on drugs. It was the only explanation that made sense. The address on her bank account and driver’s license was a mailbox service in downtown Boston. Simpson was able to hack into the employee database at the cellular phone company she currently worked at to obtain her physical address.
Checking his watch, Alexander saw it was now six in the morning on Saturday. He shook his head, rubbing his hands over his weary face. He should have been home with his arms wrapped around his wife. Instead, he stood in front of a rundown apartment building in Dorchester. Why? Was it guilt? Remorse? Maybe this was his penance for years of shortcomings.
He climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer for Rayne’s apartment. He had a feeling she was awake, despite the early hour.
The sound of wood scraping on wood caught his attention. He turned his head to his left.
“The fuck you want?” a voice asked groggily. A black man poked his head out of the window, his eyes heavy, teeth in serious need of dental work. “You a cop? If you are, you have to say so.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m looking for the woman who lives in unit 2A. Her name’s Rayne.”
“Who?”
“Blueish-purple eyes. Red hair.”
“Oh, you mean Snow White?”
“Snow White?” Alexander repeated, raising his eyebrows.
“Only white folk in the building. Actually, she’s probably the only white folk in the entire neighborhood. You ain’t exactly in Beacon Hill, mister. So tell me what you want with Snow White, then be on your way.”
“It’s personal,” he responded, fighting his instinct to reach into his coat and place his hand on his pistol, just in case.
“Well, mister, she ain’t home. Even if she was, it’s a Saturday morning, and the only people knocking on doors before the sun’s up are cops or someone up to no good. Since you said you ain’t a cop, that leads me to believe you’re no good, so why don’t you get on your way.”
Pinching his lips together, Alexander knew enough not to push the man. Neighborhoods like these stuck together. He was the outsider. He guessed Rayne was, too, at first, but it sounded like that wasn’t the case anymore. She was one of them. It gave Alexander hope to know she had at least one person looking out for her, despite her squalid surroundings.
“Okay.” He reached into his pocket. A familiar clicking echoed, and he looked up to see a revolver pointed at his chest. “Whoa, whoa.” He held his hands up to show the man he had no weapon. “I was just reaching for a business card.”
“What the fuck do I want your business card for?”
“To give to Rayne,” Alexander responded in a steady tone. “I also wanted to give you a little something for your troubles,” he added, hoping his good faith gesture would make this man a bit more cooperative. “And for your discretion.”
The man nodded. Alexander slowly reached into his jacket, placing a business card and crisp one hundred dollar bill on the window sill.
The man eyed it with skepticism. “That real?”
“My father taught me to never play jokes on a man holding me at gunpoint. So yes, it’s real.”
Studying him for a second longer, the man finally lowered his gun. “Your daddy sounds like a smart man…a lot smarter than you coming into this neighborhood in your shiny car. You don’t belong here, so why don’t you get. I’ll make sure to give Snow White your card. After that, whether she calls ya or not is up to her. And I don’t want to see you standing at this door again, ya hear?”
“You have my word,” Alexander replied, giving him a sincere look before turning and heading back to his car.
He had done all he could. He would try to be patient and give Rayne the weekend to reach out to him, then he’d pay her a visit at work. He knew he should be focusing on finding Mischa’s killer, but he needed to know Rayne was okay, that the only remaining family Landon had wouldn’t fall through the cracks, too.
Chapter Ten
December 19
7:00 AM