Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO WALKED AWAY FROM THE FIRE|
Hazel Keen watched the television screen until the photograph disappeared.
Then she reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
The news anchor stood outside a police barricade, speaking over footage of firefighters working through the remains of the Castellano Grand Ballroom.
“Authorities have confirmed one fatality in last night's fire, while investigators continue searching for Vivian Castellano, the wife of prominent New York waterfront businessman Raymond Castellano.”
Hazel's fingers went cold.
The photograph appeared again.
Dark hair swept into an elegant knot.
Diamond earrings.
A burgundy evening gown.
And the unmistakable expression of a woman who had looked directly at Hazel before walking away from a burning building.
Vivian Castellano was not missing.
She had escaped through the eastern exit before the ballroom became engulfed in flames.
Hazel had seen her.
More importantly, Vivian had told her there was nobody left inside.
But Raymond Castellano had been trapped behind a barred basement door.
And Rosa Delgado had died searching for an exit that should have been open.
Hazel lowered the remote.
Something about the sequence wouldn't leave her alone.
The broken heel.
The leather case.
The waiting car.
Vivian hadn't looked like a woman escaping an unexpected disaster.
She had looked like someone leaving an appointment.
Hazel crossed the room and retrieved her work shoes.
They were still covered in gray dust.
She had placed them beside the radiator when she returned home, too exhausted to clean them.
Now she examined the soles.
Small black fragments remained lodged in the grooves.
Charred wood.
Broken glass.
And a tiny piece of dark red material.
She turned it between her fingers.
It looked like leather.
Hazel remembered Vivian's case brushing against the steel doorframe.
Perhaps the fragment had fallen there.
Perhaps it meant nothing.
But Rosa was dead.
And Hazel could not afford to overlook something simply because it seemed insignificant.
Her phone rang.
The caller ID read MARISOL DELGADO.
Hazel answered immediately.
“Marisol?”
For a moment, she heard only breathing.
Then a young woman's voice said, “They're calling it an accident.”
Hazel closed her eyes.
Marisol was nineteen.
She worked part-time at a neighborhood pharmacy and attended community college in Queens.
Her mother had spent fourteen years working nights to keep their apartment and pay her tuition.
Now someone was discussing Rosa Delgado's death as though it were an unfortunate inconvenience.
“Who is?” Hazel asked.
“The company.”
Marisol's voice trembled.
“They sent someone to our apartment.”
“What did they say?”
“They offered funeral money.”
Hazel sat slowly on the edge of her bed.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
There was a pause.
“They said I needed to sign something.”
Hazel's stomach tightened.
“What?”
“A release.”
“Something about accepting the settlement and agreeing not to make further claims.”
Hazel stood.
“Don't sign it.”
“I haven't.”
“Good.”
Marisol began crying.
“They wouldn't even tell me what happened to her.”
Hazel gripped the phone.
She remembered Rosa's face during their last shift.
The older woman had been tired, but cheerful.
She had promised to bring homemade empanadas the next evening.
She had teased Hazel about drinking too much coffee.
And she had checked the western service exit twice because its latch had been sticking for weeks.
“Marisol,” Hazel said quietly.
“Your mother reported a problem with that door.”
“I know.”
“She told me.”
Hazel swallowed.
“She told me too.”
Marisol went silent.
Then she whispered, “Do you think someone locked her inside?”
Hazel looked toward the television.
The screen showed another photograph of Vivian Castellano.
“I don't know yet.”
It was the only honest answer she could give.
But she was beginning to suspect that someone did know.
After ending the call, Hazel showered and changed into jeans and a clean sweater.
She put the little red leather fragment into an envelope.
Then she walked downstairs.
The laundromat beneath her apartment was already open.
Mrs. Park, the owner, sat behind the counter folding towels.
She looked up when Hazel entered.
“You should be sleeping.”
Hazel managed a tired smile.
“I tried.”
Mrs. Park studied her.
“The news said one woman died.”
Hazel nodded.
“Rosa.”
The older woman's expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
Hazel looked toward the washing machines.
For three years, she had lived above this little business.
Mrs. Park never charged her extra when the heating system failed.
She left soup outside Hazel's door when she worked double shifts.
And she had never once asked why Hazel sometimes came home crying.
“Can I use your printer?”
“Of course.”
Hazel printed the news photograph of Vivian Castellano.
Then she searched the reporting on the fire.
Most articles described Vivian as missing.
One claimed she had last been seen entering the ballroom shortly before the alarm.
Another suggested she might have been trapped in the eastern wing.
Hazel knew that wasn't true.
She found the police department's public tip number.
Her finger hovered over the screen.
Then she dialed.
A dispatcher answered.
Hazel identified herself and explained that she had worked at the event.
She reported seeing Vivian Castellano leave through the eastern service corridor.
The dispatcher asked several questions.
Hazel answered carefully.
She described the gown.
The broken heel.
The case.
The waiting vehicle.
And Vivian's statement that nobody remained inside.
The dispatcher promised to forward the information to the investigators assigned to the case.
Hazel wrote down the reference number.
Then she asked whether she could speak directly with a detective.
“Someone will contact you if additional information is needed.”
The call ended.
Hazel stared at the phone.
She had done the sensible thing.
She had reported what she saw.
Now she should go home and rest.
Instead, she found herself thinking about Raymond Castellano.
The man she'd dragged out of the basement.
He hadn't looked like a crime boss when she found him.
He'd looked like an injured man who had run out of strength.
There had been blood on his forehead.
His left leg had been trapped beneath a beam.
And when she reached him, he'd looked at her with an expression she couldn't forget.
Not fear.
Disbelief.
As though he couldn't understand why anyone would come back for him.
Her phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
She hesitated before answering.
“Hello?”
A man's voice spoke.
“Miss Keen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Gabriel Voss.”
Hazel stood straighter.
“I'm Mr. Castellano's attorney.”
Her heart began pounding.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your employer provided the names of the staff who were present.”
Hazel looked toward Mrs. Park.
The older woman was watching her carefully.
“Why are you calling?”
“Mr. Castellano would like to speak with you.”
Hazel swallowed.
“Is he all right?”
“He's recovering.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
There was a small pause.
“He sustained a fractured ankle, smoke inhalation, and several lacerations.”
“He is expected to recover.”
Relief came so suddenly Hazel had to sit down.
She hadn't realized how badly she needed to hear that.
Gabriel continued.
“He understands that you saved his life.”
“I helped him outside.”
“You did more than that.”
Hazel looked at the printed photograph in her hand.
“Mr. Voss, I need to tell you something.”
The attorney's voice changed.
“What?”
“I saw his wife leave the building.”
Silence.
A long silence.
Then Gabriel spoke more carefully.
“When?”
“Before the alarm.”
“Are you certain it was Vivian Castellano?”
“Yes.”
“Did she see you?”
“She spoke to me.”
Another pause.
“What did she say?”
Hazel's mouth went dry.
“She told me there was nobody left inside.”
The line became so quiet that Hazel thought the call had disconnected.
Then Gabriel said, “Miss Keen, where are you right now?”
She glanced around the laundromat.
“At home.”
“Are you alone?”
Hazel frowned.
“Why?”
“Please answer.”
“No.”
“Good.”
His voice was suddenly urgent.
“Do not speak to anyone claiming to represent Mrs. Castellano.”
Hazel's stomach tightened.
“Why would I?”
“Because there are people looking for her.”
“Mr. Voss, is she dangerous?”
The attorney hesitated.
“I don't know.”
Hazel remembered the black car.
The leather case.
The complete absence of panic on Vivian's face.
“Then why are you warning me?”
Gabriel exhaled.
“Because Mr. Castellano has been asking the same question since he regained consciousness.”
“What question?”
“Why his wife locked him in the basement.”
Hazel stopped breathing.
The laundromat's washing machines hummed around her.
Outside, traffic moved through the morning rain.
Gabriel continued.
“Mr. Castellano remembers an argument.”
“He remembers Vivian taking something from his private office.”
“And he remembers her pushing him down the basement stairs.”
Hazel pressed a hand against her mouth.
The steel bar.
The trapped man.
The woman walking away.
Everything suddenly looked different.
“Miss Keen?”
She struggled to answer.
“Yes?”
“We would like to arrange a meeting.”
Hazel looked at Rosa's name written in her notebook.
She thought of Marisol sitting alone in an apartment where her mother's coat still hung beside the door.
“If I meet him,” Hazel said, “I want to ask about the western service exit.”
Gabriel paused.
“Why?”
“Because Rosa Delgado died there.”
His voice softened.
“I know.”
“She told management the door wasn't working.”
“Then that needs to be investigated.”
Hazel closed her eyes.
“Exactly.”
Gabriel gave her the address of a private medical facility in Manhattan.
They agreed to meet that afternoon.
Hazel ended the call.
Mrs. Park approached with a cup of tea.
“Something wrong?”
Hazel stared at the phone.
“I think the fire was deliberate.”
Mrs. Park's expression changed.
Before she could respond, a black sedan stopped outside.
Hazel looked through the window.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Sunglasses despite the cloudy morning.
He remained beside the car, watching the laundromat.
Then a second man emerged.
He carried a small white envelope.
Hazel felt her pulse quicken.
The men approached the entrance.
Mrs. Park immediately moved behind the counter.
The taller man opened the door.
“Hazel Keen?”
Hazel didn't answer.
The man smiled.
“Mrs. Castellano asked us to deliver something.”
He placed the envelope on the counter.
Then he looked directly at Hazel.
“She appreciates your discretion.”
Hazel stared at him.
“I haven't agreed to be discreet.”
His smile disappeared.
He tapped the envelope once.
“There's enough money inside to make last night easier to forget.”
Hazel thought of Rosa.
Of Marisol.
Of Raymond lying beneath burning timber.
Then she pushed the envelope back.
“Tell Mrs. Castellano I remember everything.”
For several seconds, the man didn't move.
Then he picked up the envelope.
His eyes settled on the photograph of Vivian beside the printer.
“That's unfortunate.”
He turned and walked away.
Hazel watched the sedan disappear into traffic.
Only when it was gone did she realize her hands were shaking.
Mrs. Park locked the laundromat door.
“You need help,” she whispered.
Hazel nodded.
Then her phone rang again.
This time, the screen displayed a name she recognized.
RAYMOND CASTELLANO.
She answered.
A man's rough voice came through the speaker.
“Miss Keen?”
Hazel couldn't speak.
“It's Raymond.”
His breathing sounded painful.
“I understand my wife came looking for you.”
Hazel glanced toward the street.
“Yes.”
His next words were so quiet she almost missed them.
“Then she knows you saw her leave me to die.”
May you like
And before Hazel could answer, he asked a question that made the room seem colder.
“Did she take the black case with her?”
