The name on the final page belonged to Dean Mercer, the security supervisor at Chicago General.
For years, Mercer had greeted me by name when I entered the employee garage.
He had helped nurses carry bags to their cars after late shifts.
He had once changed a flat tire for me beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of Level B.
Now I was staring at an email he had sent to Roberto Ravellini three days before my abduction.
“Level B,” it read.
“Camera seven will be off.
She leaves alone at 11:40.”
Beneath that message was a payment record from one of the Ravellini family’s security companies.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
My fingers went numb around the paper.
Franco’s phone remained on speaker beside the folder.
“You paid Mercer through one of our companies,” Franco said.
Roberto laughed softly.
“Our companies? You always did confuse control with ownership.”
Franco’s face did not change, but Nicholas moved closer to the door and activated a recording device.
Then Roberto spoke to me.
“Megan, tell Franco what happens when people embarrass this family.”
The sound of his voice pulled the basement around me again.
Damp concrete.
Rusted chain.
Soup cans rolling down the stairs.
I forced air through my damaged throat.
“You chained me to a pipe.”
“And no jury will ever hear you say it,” Roberto replied.
“By tomorrow, you’ll be an unstable woman who followed me home and refused to leave.
I have messages.
Photographs.
Witnesses.”
Franco looked at the phone.
“You forged them.”
“I prepared for disappointment.”
A warning light flashed above the bedroom door.
Nicholas checked the security panel mounted in the hall.
“Family access code,” he said.
“East entrance.”
Franco closed the folder and stood.
Lucia appeared at the doorway holding a kitchen knife with both hands.
Her face had gone pale, but her grip was steady.
“Stay with Megan,” Franco told her.
I reached for his sleeve.
“Don’t leave me alone.”
The words came out broken and small.
Franco looked toward Nicholas.
“Lock the room from the inside.
Nobody enters without her permission.”
He placed the folder beside me and handed me the only key.
It was the first choice anyone had given me in three months.
The footsteps climbed the stairs.
Nicholas drew his weapon, but Franco pushed the barrel down.
A moment later, Dr.
Costa appeared at the far end of the hallway with his medical bag raised above his head.
“Perhaps someone should update the access list,” he said sharply.
The tension in the room loosened by a fraction.
Franco exhaled, but the phone on the bed had gone silent.
Roberto had ended the call.
