her desk.
“How is your friend doing?” she asked, I assumed just to be polite.
“I’m not sure, I haven’t been back since this morning, but no one’s called to tell me otherwise. I’m sure there’s been improvement.”
“Wonderful news, Dear,” she said, preoccupied.
She pulled her pearl drop earrings from her ears, and placed them on the silver tray that sat on a small table near the wall. My eyes wandered to a hutch that matched her table and desk. The fronds of a plant obscured the top cabinet, and I zeroed in on a small silver circle on the top right corner.
“Coming, Nina?” Cynthia asked, pausing at the door.
“I’ll be down in a minute. I wanted to check my e-mail, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she smiled. “Don’t be late for dinner.”
I watched her walk out the door and waited as she descended the stairs. Once she was deeper into the lower level, I sprinted down the hall to my father’s office. Yanking open his desk drawer, I grabbed the small silver ring of keys.
With a sense of excitement, I hurried back to my mother’s study and pulled the plant to the floor. It was heavier than it appeared, and I grunted as I worked to set it down without overturning the whole pot onto its side.
After the first five keys failed, I blew my bangs from my face with a puff of air. Only two keys left. The sixth key slid in, and when I turned my wrist and the key continued to turn ninety degrees, I gasped.
Pulling the cabinet door open, I peered behind me for a just a moment, afraid of what my mother would say if she caught me snooping in her things. There were several files, so I pulled all of them out and spread them on the floor. On my knees, I thumbed through contracts, shipping papers, a receipt for the ring my father bought me, insurance claims and filings, and the occasional deposit slip.
I slid one folder to the side to uncover another with Jack’s no-nonsense scribble on it.
Port of Providence
My hands shook as I opened the flap of the folder. Did I really want to know? I felt I was opening Pandora’s Box.
Sitting on top, I found a thick, wrinkled manila envelope. I pulled the packet from the file and opened it. It contained a stack of black and white photos. Picture after picture featured a dozen or so different men, but those same faces appeared over and over, at times alone, and at other times together. One man that was most often the subject in the pictures stood beside the governor of Rhode Island. Another man was pictured in both casual clothes and some type of uniform; I assumed he was a police officer in formal blues.
I’d seen enough movies to know that these were surveillance photos. I turned each of the pictures over, but they were all unmarked. I had never seen these men before that I could remember, and I couldn’t fathom why my father would have them photographed. I looked at the file on the floor, knowing I was about to find out.
A hand-written sheet of paper caught my eye, and I poured over it. I flipped to the next page, and the next. My heart pounded as the words burned into my irises. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
“Nina? Dinner!”
I rushed to gather the files and shoved them into Cynthia’s hutch. I locked the cabinet door and heaved the clay pot back to its shelf. After returning the keys to Jack’s desk drawer, I met Cynthia in the dining room.
I sat in my usual chair, across from my mother. A steaming plate of food waited for me on fine china, and I grimaced as the mouth-watering smell invaded my nose. I realized I hadn’t eaten since five o’clock the evening before. I was famished, but couldn’t eat.
“Aren’t you hungry, dear?”
I furrowed my brow and stabbed a carrot with my fork. Her strained politeness would soon be chipped away and all the pleasantries would cease.
“Not really.”
“Well, why not?” I waited for the right words to come and she rolled her eyes with impatience. “Really, Nina. You know I don’t like it when—”
“Has Daddy always been a criminal, or was it something he took up just before he died?” I blurted out, unconcerned with the consequences.
Cynthia’s fork fell to her plate with a shrill clang. She didn’t say anything for a long while. We both held our breath, waiting for the other to speak.
“What…did you say?” she finally whispered.
“You heard me.”
“No. I don’t believe I did. I’m sure you misspoke,” her eyes fluttered as she ended her sentence.
“Port of Providence.” I sat slightly forward in my chair, watching her expression change from insult to shock.
“What? Where did you hear th—,” Cynthia stopped mid-sentence and shook her head. She was flustered, which she rarely experienced.
“I saw the file, Mother. Was it organized crime, or did he just skim off the top at the docks? You know his payroll was full of dirty cops, right?”
“Nina Elizabeth Grey! You will shut your mouth this instant!” I could see the wheels in her head turning, and then she stood up to come to my side of the table, sitting beside me. “You saw files. What files?” I could tell her fury was subdued, she would address my disrespect later.
“The files locked in the hutch in your study, Mother. Stop playing dumb.”
Her eyes tightened; my rudeness narrowly outweighed her curiosity. “I’ve never played dumb in my life, Nina. Why on earth would you—,”
“I want the truth.” I didn’t let my eyes move an inch from her gaze.
“I didn’t bother myself with your father’s business dealings,” she said, turning away.
“But you know what I’m talking about when I say Port of Providence, don’t you?” My accusing eyes bored into her.
Cynthia nodded slightly. “That’s not something you want to admit to having knowledge of, Nina. Forget you saw any of that,” she whispered.
“Forget—,” I was in shock. My father was a…a….criminal? A thief? My face twisted into disgust. “He stole from the distributors he shipped for, he sold things on the black market, he smuggled illegal contraband, and he used cops to cover up his dirty work…police officers, Mother! All of which he gathered evidence against to keep them from turning on him!” My eyes glossed over with anger. “Everything we have is from blood money. Jack had people beaten…he’s had people killed.”
Cynthia wiped a tear and looked down at her lap. This took me off-guard; I had only seen my mother cry a handful of times, all of them following Jack’s accident and death.
“Oh, Jack,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly. She looked at me with sympathetic eyes, “You were never supposed to see those things, Nina. Your father was always so careful to keep you safe from that part of his life. He hasn’t been gone six months and I’ve failed him.” Cynthia rose to her feet and walked slowly to the door.
I pushed myself away from the table and called after her. “Tell me I’m wrong, Mother. I need you to tell me this is a mistake.” My voice was closer to begging than the firm tone I’d meant to take.
Cynthia didn’t turn around; she wiped another tear and sighed.
I took a deep breath and braced myself. “Charles Dawson wants those files.”
“He knew where they were?” she shrieked, flipping around.
Anger surged through me. “You know who he is?”
“He worked for your father,” she said, touching her mouth nervously in thought.
I sat up higher in my chair, my muscles rigid. “Why is he harassing me, Mother? Why aren’t you upset about that?”
“Nina, Dear,” her tone turned soft, “I told you. Your father did everything in his power to keep you removed from his dealings. I understand you were frightened; but you were safe, I promise.”
“What does that mean? Why won’t anyone give me a straight answer?”
Cynthia tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, the way she did when I was little. “Wouldn’t you agree that after tonight, some things are better left unsaid?”
