Chapter 9 - The Ghost in Montreal
Three weeks later, on a bitter, sunlit afternoon in late November, Marco walked into the Fulton Market design studio carrying a single, unsealed manila envelope bearing Canadian postmarks.
I was standing at the central conference table, reviewing the final stone samples for the Grand Sovereign’s outdoor winter pavilion with Elena.
Marco stopped two paces away, removed his woolen flat cap, and laid the envelope on the drafting paper.
“From the Montreal dispatch, Mrs. Moretti,” Marco said, his voice quiet, respectful. “Thought you should see it before the Boss files it in the vault.”
I picked up the envelope.
Inside was a single, eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph and a three-line administrative report from the Canadian Border Services Agency.
The photograph showed an industrial warehouse district outside Montreal—a bleak, frozen landscape of gravel roads, chain-link fences, and rusting shipping containers under a gray, overcast sky.
Walking along the concrete apron of a freight loading bay was Sophia Reynolds.
She wore a heavy, fluorescent orange safety vest over a soiled navy parka, steel-toed work boots caked in gray road salt, and thick, industrial canvas gloves. Her caramel hair was tucked into an unbranded black knit watch cap; her face was pale, scrubbed entirely bare of cosmetics, her hands carrying a heavy plastic clipboard as she checked the seal numbers on a line of refrigerated diesel trailers.
No silk. No crystal flutes. No Harry Winston diamonds.
Beneath the photograph was the administrative log:
EMPLOYEE: REYNOLDS, S.
ASSIGNMENT: THIRD-SHIFT INVENTORY AUDIT - NORTHERN REACH LOGISTICS.
WAGE GARNISHMENT: 75% APPLIED TO OUTSTANDING COMMERCIAL DEFAULT.
BEHAVIORAL INCIDENTS: ZERO.
TRAVEL RESTRICTIONS: ACTIVE - PASSPORT RETAINED BY RECEIVER.
I looked at the image for thirty seconds.
I remembered the smell of merlot on my satin dress. I remembered the sound of her laughter in the ballroom, and the venomous, whispered promise that a woman who loses her place in a man’s heart never gets it back.
I didn't feel triumph. I didn't feel hatred.
I felt only the cold, peaceful indifference of an engineer who had inspected a cracked bridge, identified the structural flaw, and watched the river carry the debris away.
I slid the photograph back into the manila envelope, handed it to Marco, and picked up my drafting pencil.
May you like
“Give it to Vincent,” I said, turning back to the stone samples on the table. “And tell him the winter pavilion opens on the fifteenth. He needs to make sure his tuxedo is pressed.”
Marco smiled—a rare, genuine flash of white teeth beneath his broken nose—bowed his head, and walked toward the freight elevator.
