Chapter 5: Four Boxes

I looked at the photo for a long time.

Nicholas's hand in Russell's. Russell's other hand on Nicholas's shoulder.

"Daddy says he's very reasonable," Shelby said. "He was going to sell us the mine. Then all of a sudden he needed a bigger buyer."

She tilted her head at me.

"You didn't really think he picked you, did you?"

Nicholas didn't look at the phone.

"Can I have a copy of that?" he asked her. "It's a good one of me."

Shelby's smile slipped.

She put the phone in her bag and walked out through the revolving door.

I went out the side door to Park Avenue without waiting for him.

He caught up at the corner.

"Christina."

"You said you don't lie."

"I don't."

"You stood on his porch."

"Yes."

"You shook his hand."

"Twice. Once coming, once going. He has a strong grip for sixty-one."

I turned on him.

"Is that funny to you?"

He stopped smiling.

"No," he said. "Come with me and I'll show you."

The Santoro townhouse on East 70th Street looked like nobody had lived in it for a decade.

Sheets over the furniture in the front parlor. A grandfather clock that had stopped at twenty past three.

He took me up two flights to a room at the back.

It had been a library once.

Now it was something else.

One whole wall was cork board.

Photographs, maps, phone records, newspaper clippings gone yellow. Red string ran between them.

Under the board stood four file boxes, labeled in black marker.

2011. 2012-2016. 2017-2022. 2023-.

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