Chapter 6 - MARA’S RECIPES
Z
They returned to Claire’s apartment after sunrise under enough security to invade a small country.
The wooden box was gone.
But Evan insisted the evidence had never been inside it.
“Then why steal the box?” Claire demanded.
“To make you think we found what we needed.”
“We?”
Evan looked uncomfortable.
“Victor’s people.”
Marco stood beside the bedroom window.
“You still work for him?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to understand that if I still worked for Victor, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Daniel folded his arms.
“You broke into a protected property this morning.”
“To warn Claire.”
“You brought a gun.”
“Because your people shoot first.”
Marco’s expression remained flat.
“My people showed remarkable restraint.”
Evan looked toward his wounded arm.
“Sure.”
Claire stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Both men looked at her.
It was deeply irritating.
“My mother’s recipes.”
She went to the kitchen.
Mara had written hundreds.
Some were in a binder.
Others were stuffed inside cookbooks.
Claire pulled everything from the cabinet.
“Tomato sauce. Meatballs. Biscotti. Lemon chicken.”
Evan shook his head.
“Victor searched those years ago.”
“Then what are we looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
Claire sat on the floor.
Her mother had loved codes.
Not criminal codes.
Puzzle-book codes.
Crosswords.
Sudoku.
She used to leave Claire notes written backward when she was a child.
Mara once hid birthday money inside a dictionary and gave Claire a riddle to find it.
Claire opened the oldest cookbook.
The Joy of Italian Cooking.
A familiar piece of paper fell out.
Mara’s handwriting.
Sunday Gravy.
Claire read the ingredients.
Two cans tomatoes.
Four cloves garlic.
One onion.
Seven basil leaves.
Three tablespoons olive oil.
Nothing strange.
Then she noticed something.
The quantities were written twice.
Once in ink.
Once lightly in pencil beside them.
2-4-1-7-3.
Claire turned the page.
Another recipe.
5-1-9-4-2.
Marco crouched beside her.
“Those aren’t measurements.”
“No.”
Daniel brought paper.
Claire copied the sequences.
Eight recipes contained pencil numbers.
Marco watched.
“What cipher would she use?”
Claire thought of childhood.
“She liked books.”
“A book cipher?”
“Maybe.”
“What book?”
Claire looked around her kitchen.
Then she remembered.
Her mother’s favorite novel.
A battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
Claire laughed softly.
“Of course.”
She found it on the top shelf.
Mara had given it to her when she turned sixteen.
“Why this?”
Marco asked.
“She said it was about what revenge costs.”
Marco’s expression changed.
Claire opened the book.
The sequences corresponded to pages, lines, words.
It took two hours.
The first message emerged at 10:11 a.m.
ANTONIO PAID FERRARO.
Marco stopped breathing.
Daniel looked at him.
“Ferraro?”
Marco stared at the paper.
“My mother’s driver.”
Claire continued.
The next sequence:
VICTOR KNOWS.
Then:
ACCOUNT 7714 GENEVA.
Daniel immediately started typing.
The final sequence was longer.
Claire decoded it slowly.
When she finished, nobody spoke.
MEET LUCA IF I DIE.
“Luca?” Claire whispered.
Marco looked pale.
“I know one Luca connected to my father.”
“Alive?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel searched.
Seconds later, an old photograph appeared.
Luca Moretti.
Former Keane accountant.
Disappeared 2004.
Claire’s excitement vanished.
“Disappeared?”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Apparently.”
Evan spoke from the doorway.
“He’s alive.”
Everyone turned.
“You know where?” Marco asked.
“I know Victor sends money to someone called Luca twice a year.”
“Where?”
“Jersey.”
Daniel was already moving.
Marco stopped him.
“No digital communication. No calls. Victor may have access.”
Claire looked at Marco.
“You believe Evan?”
“No.”
Evan laughed.
Marco continued.
“But I believe Mara.”
Claire looked at her mother’s handwriting.
For twelve years she had believed Mara Bennett had lived an ordinary life.
An insurance office.
Coupons.
Church on Christmas Eve.
Arguments about electric bills.
Now those memories rearranged themselves.
The locked drawer.
The newspaper clippings.
The way Mara always watched cars behind them.
Claire suddenly remembered something else.
“Wait.”
She ran to the bedroom.
Under her mattress was an old photograph Lily liked because Mara was holding Claire as a baby.
Claire brought it back.
Behind Mara stood a man.
Young.
Dark-haired.
Claire had never noticed him before.
Marco took the photograph.
His face drained of color.
“That’s my father.”
Claire stared.
“Your father knew my mother personally?”
“Yes.”
“How personally?”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
Evan looked away.
Claire caught it.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
She looked at Evan.
“What do you know?”
“Claire…”
“What?”
Evan sighed.
“Victor believed Mara’s daughter might have been important to the Keanes for more than bookkeeping.”
Claire’s stomach dropped.
“Important how?”
Marco looked down at the photograph.
“No.”
Claire turned.
“No what?”
“My father and Mara were not…”
He stopped.
The silence became enormous.
Claire almost laughed from the absurdity.
“You think your father might be my father?”
Marco’s eyes met hers.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“Because I know exactly how rumors work.”
Evan interrupted.
“Victor thought the same thing years ago. It’s part of why he put me near Claire.”
Claire felt ill.
Marco took out his phone.
“DNA test.”
Claire stared.
“You cannot seriously—”
“We end the question today.”
Before anyone could move, the apartment buzzer sounded.
Daniel froze.
No visitor should have reached the lobby.
A second buzz.
Then a voice came through the intercom.
Old.
Male.
Italian accent.
“Claire Bennett?”
Claire approached cautiously.
“Yes?”
“My name is Luca Moretti.”
Every person in the room went still.
The voice continued.
“Your mother told me that if the Keanes ever came looking for you…”
May you like
A pause.
“…I should tell you why she spent the rest of her life hiding.”
