Chapter 6: The File on the Kitchen Table
Emma found the envelope when she got home.
It had been slid under her apartment door, plain white, no stamp, no return address.
Her name was printed on the front in block letters — not handwritten.
Printed, like it came from an office.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, bag still on her shoulder, key still in her hand.
Then she picked it up and went inside.
The envelope contained a single sheet of paper.
At the top, in the same block print: *You should know who you're working for.*
Below that, a photograph.
Black and white, printed on plain paper.
It showed Vincent Moretti outside a building she didn't recognize — a low, institutional structure with a parking gate.
He was talking to a man in a dark coat.
The photo was dated three years earlier.
Below the photograph: *Moretti Development.
Eastside relocation project.
Forty-one families displaced.
One fatality during demolition.
Covered up.*
Emma read it twice.
Then she set it on the kitchen table and went to wash her face.
When she came back, it was still there.
She pulled out her laptop.
She searched *Moretti Development Eastside Chicago* and got four pages of results — mostly business news, construction approvals, a city council vote.
She searched further.
She found a community advocacy site, last updated two years ago, with a page titled *What Happened on Clybourn.*
She read for forty minutes.
The story was real.
A development project, a neighborhood rezoned, residents given inadequate notice and below-market buyouts.
A man named Gerald Stokes, sixty-three years old, who had refused to vacate his unit and had been found unresponsive six days before the scheduled demolition.
The coroner's report listed cardiac arrest.
A community group had disputed the timeline.
Nothing had come of it.
Vincent Moretti's name appeared twice in the articles.
Once as a signatory on the development permit.
Once in a statement that said his company had followed all applicable regulations.
Emma closed the laptop.
She sat in the kitchen with the printed sheet in front of her and the folder from Vincent's office in her bag and her phone on the table showing a balance that had not changed since morning.
Lily called at seven thirty.
"How'd the interview go?" Lily asked.
"It wasn't exactly an interview."
"Emma." Lily's voice shifted to its careful register — the one she used when she was worried but trying not to show it.
"What happened?"
Emma looked at the paper on the table.
"I got a job offer.
A good one.
I haven't decided yet."
"What does good mean?"
Emma told her the salary.
Lily went quiet for three full seconds.
"Emma.
That's—"
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
Emma picked up the printed sheet.
She looked at the photograph again — Vincent outside that building, coat collar up, face turned slightly away from the camera as though he knew, even then, that someone might be watching.
"I'm not sure yet," she said.
"I'm still thinking."
"Dad's appointment is Tuesday," Lily said quietly.
"The cardiology follow-up.
He's been telling me it's fine but Dr.
Reeves's office called and it isn't fine.
They want to talk about a procedure."
Emma pressed her fingers against the table.
"How much?"
"They haven't given us a number yet.
But Emma—" Lily stopped.
When she spoke again, her voice was smaller.
"I'm scared."
Emma closed her eyes.
"I know.
I've got it.
I'll figure it out."
After she hung up, she sat for a long time.
Then she picked up the printed sheet, folded it, and put it in her bag next to the folder.
She would take the job.
She had already known she would take the job.
The question now was something different — because whoever had slid that envelope under her door had not done it to help her.
May you like
They had done it to stop her.
And there was only one person who had reason to stop her before she walked through Vincent Moretti's door.
