7. Siena
Siena
S igns for New Jersey and New York begin to dot the highway, the skyline tightening its grip as buildings draw closer and traffic thickens into the familiar chaos of home. The city looms ahead, but the closer I get, the more untethered I feel.
Home should be a place of comfort, but the idea of stepping back into my life—back home to Jersey and back to my job at the Victim Advocacy Center in Tribeca—is like walking into the wrong story.
How can I help victims when I am one? When Emily was one? When her killer is still out there, faceless and nameless? I tell myself I have time to figure it out, but the uncertainty gnaws at me.
Usually, when life throws too much at me, I call Emily. She always knew what to say, even if I didn’t want to hear it. But the ache of her absence presses harder now, the silence on the other end of the line permanent.
My mother and Franco? Their voices were cold, distant when I called them with the news—familiar but far from comforting.
But I do have Sophie.
Sophie’s in the city, my cousin, my ally, the one person who is almost as close as Emily was, who feels like home. The daughter of our father’s brother, Sophie, has always been more like a sister to us.
At 34, she’s two years older than I am and two years younger than Emily, so the three of us have always been more like sisters than cousins.
Her dad forced her to separate from us in the years after my father died, but by the time we all reached adult age, there was no keeping us apart.
When she opened her restaurant, The Vault, Emily and I were by her side, folding napkins and scrubbing floors and even waited tables for her the first few months to help her get it off the ground.
I pull into the tiny parking lot and lock the car after filling my arms with all the plastic bags full of Emily’s things. She must have seen me from inside the restaurant, because the moment I walk in, she throws her arms around me, sobbing.
I let her cry, trying to keep a grip on all the bags, finding it hard to breathe. I can’t cry with her. I can’t cry ever.
Finally, Sophie steps back, wiping tears from her eyes. Her soft honey brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she swipes a stray lock behind her ear, her green eyes golden with grief.
“It’s just unimaginable. I can’t even comprehend all this right now. And you must just be…” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head, speaking in a hoarse whisper.
I can’t speak, but I nod slowly. She knows without me having to say anything, and its heart wrenchingly gratifying to finally see someone have the appropriate response to the loss of Emily.
Sophie takes some of the plastic bags in my arms and gasps. “The scarf!” She looks at me and shakes her head, wiping away tears. “Come on, come back to my office.”
She leads me through the tiny bustling kitchen to her cramped office at the back, a chaotic masterpiece of clutter that’s so quintessentially Sophie. The air smells like simmering tomatoes and fresh basil, a sizzling hum of activity surrounding us as cooks shout orders and pans clatter.
Her office is its own kind of storm: a tangle of open books, scribbled-on napkins, notebooks bursting with ideas, and recipes scrawled on the backs of receipts. It’s a mess, sure, but it’s also alive with her energy.
Sophie never stops tinkering with The Vault’s menu, spinning fresh twists on the Italian dishes we grew up with, her creativity constantly bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove.
I can’t help but smile. This chaos, this passion—it’s so her. I love Sophie, and I love the wild, beautiful way her mind works.
“Wow, Soph. You cleaned up!” I joke with a laugh, sinking into the chair behind her desk.
A cup teeters precariously on a stack of books, and I grab it before it can fall, spinning around in circles in the chair, looking for a place to set it down. The whole desk looks like it’s one gust of wind away from collapsing in on itself.
Sophie grins, leaning her curvy body over the desk as she clears a small space for my bags. She’s short like I am and she doesn’t wear heels at work, so it’s a reach. It reminds me of how I must have looked leaning over the edge of that jacked up pickup truck at the lake .
“I know, right? I’m known for my organizational skills.”
Her humor fades as she rests a hand on my arm, her gaze steady and warm.
Sophie has always been the heart of the cousins, the sweetest of all of us.
There’s a quiet strength in her that is achingly familiar, and her energy, the light that comes with being in her space, is exactly what I need right now.
“You take your time, okay? Whatever you need, I’m here,” she says softly.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and she squeezes my arm before leaving me alone in the cluttered little room.
The silence weighs heavily, but it’s a relief. I reach for the plastic bag and pull out the makeup case, the familiar vinyl cool in my hands. Clearing a patch on the desk, I smooth out the bag and roll the case open on top of it. The green scorched vinyl catches the light, and my throat tightens.
Emily’s things. Tangible. Broken. But here.
I start unzipping the little pockets, one by one, each tiny compartment holding a piece of Emily’s world. A hair clip. Lipstick. A set of makeup brushes. Each discovery brings a twist of the knife. My chest tightens, and I bite down hard on my lip.
Keep going. Just keep going.
A roll of twenties tucked neatly into one pocket. A photograph of Nigel, her English bulldog, his lopsided grin frozen forever. And then something small, something dark and wrapped in layers of thick, clear plastic.
I hesitate before peeling it open, each layer of plastic revealing nothing but more wrapping. My hands shake as I unroll it, and after what seems like forever, a small black flash drive tumbles into my lap .
My heart pounds as I turn to Sophie’s computer. Sliding into the chair, I plug in the flash drive and watch as the folder loads. A single video pops up on the screen. No documents, no photos, just one video file.
The thumbnail freezes me in place: a man tied to a chair, his face twisted in fear. My finger hovers over the trackpad before I finally click.
The video starts, grainy and dim. The man struggles against the ropes that are biting into his arms, his mouth moving as if yelling, but no sound comes through the speakers. I crank the volume to max, but it’s eerily silent.
A figure steps out of the shadows behind him, wide and solid, a gun glinting in his hand. He presses it to the back of the man’s head, saying something I can’t hear. Then there’s a flash of light from the gun.
The man jerks forward, head lolling, his chin slumping to his chest. Blood trickles down his face from the dark hole in his forehead. The camera captures his lifeless eyes staring blankly forward.
The killer moves into the light, his features sharp and unforgettable: bad toupee, a big hooked nose, thick bushy eyebrows, fleshy, pockmarked cheeks, and a scar that carves up his jaw like a jagged fault line.
He stares into the lens, says something inaudible, and then the video freezes and the screen goes black.
It’s only a few minutes long. I replay it, searching the shadows for something, anything, that might give me more context.
The background is stark: a cavernous room with a concrete wall rising behind them, smooth and unbroken.
The floor is gray cement, cold and lifeless, illuminated by the faint glow of a wrought iron lamp on the left-hand side of the screen that reflects off another concrete wall dotted with heavy, metal shackles on the right side.
Nothing. No clues, no answers. Just a dead man and the ghost of Emily’s secrets staring back at me.
Why would she have this video? Did she know these men? Did Mikey? Is this video the reason that she and Mikey were on the run? Were murdered?
Nausea washes over me. I have never seen anyone murdered before. My mind turns to Emily, and I have the fleeting thought that whether or not the plane crash was intentional, at least she didn’t die like this.
I know Emily told me not to, but I call Franco anyway. He’s a New York cop, and even though she was adamant about keeping him out of this, I can’t shake the feeling that he might have answers.
He can be an asshole, sure, a mama’s boy, spoiled and entitled, but Emily’s his sister too. If nothing else, I’m counting on his pride to be damaged by the notion that someone would get away with harming someone in his family.
He picks up on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“I’m in town. I’m fine.”
“You’re in town?” His voice sharpens. “So you were out of town? You didn’t try to go find Emily, did you?”
“I didn’t just try.” My grip tightens on the phone. “I found the lake where her plane crashed, and I got some of her things.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Siena?” he snaps. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Stay out of this!”
Of course. Typical Franco. Always barking orders, always trying to be in control.
I grind my teeth and press on. “She had a flash drive, Franco. There was a video on it of people I don’t know.
Do you have access to biometric tracking systems?
I’d bet everything I own that the guy in this video is the reason why Emily and Mikey were on the run. And the reason their plane crashed.”
Franco sighs. “Siena, what are you talking about?”
“Do you have—”
“I heard you,” he cuts me off. There’s a pause, long enough that I almost think he’s hung up. “Why do you think the crash wasn’t an accident? You have no reason to believe that. And if you’re right…” He exhales sharply. “Then you just stole evidence from a crime scene.”
A dry laugh escapes me. “That’s your primary concern? Evidence? Seriously, Franco, what the fuck is wrong with you ?”
He keeps going like I haven’t said a word. “And if someone did sabotage the plane, stealing that stuff might have just put a target on your back, Siena.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. He sounds… strange. Not like the arrogant prick I’m used to. Serious. Worried? That can’t be right.
“I mean, I guess it’s possible,” I say absentmindedly, staring at the screen.
Matti flashes across my mind. He seemed so out of place down there, and maybe he was. Maybe he was there because he orchestrated the plane crash and came to check out his handiwork.
And watch me steal Emily’s stuff.
“Siena, I know you think I’m an asshole. But listen to me: you work at a nonprofit, for fuck’s sake. This is out of your league, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I roll my eyes and close the video. Of course, Franco thinks I’m incompetent. That’s his default setting. But as the video window shrinks, I spot another thumbnail at the bottom of the screen, half-hidden.
“Franco, she’s your sister, too. He’s your brother-in-law. Why aren’t you more interested in figuring this out?”
His voice fades into background noise as I click the new file open. My pulse quickens as the screen fills with blue and white. Lines crisscrossing. Words and numbers scribbled in neat blue text. Xs mark points of interest.
Blueprints.
It takes me a moment to piece it together. Not just a fragment—this looks like an entire set of blueprints. But blueprints for what?
At first, the lines and shapes on the screen confuse me. It almost looks like plans for separate buildings, but then I realize it’s a single structure, mapped out floor by floor. My eyes catch on the tiny text in the bottom corner: One Pearl Park Plaza.
That’s in the Battery. I know exactly where that is.
It’s not close to where I work, but it’s not far either.
The iconic old building with its brick facade and towering spire, standing sentinel for over a century.
These days, it’s just offices, I think, but seeing it here, tied to everything else on this flash drive, only worsens my confusion.
Why the hell would blueprints be on the same flash drive as a snuff video? And why did Emily even have this in the first place?
“Franco.” I interrupt him. “What’s at One Pearl Park Plaza?”
My fingers skim the screen, tracing over the blueprint’s grid lines. The building is old, practically ancient by modern standards, and yet, somehow, it’s tied to Emily’s death?
Franco sighs, his tone clipped. “You’re not even listening to me, are you? Siena, bring the flash drive to the station and whatever else you found. Just bring it in. Let me do my job, please?”
I roll my eyes. Franco always wants to control the narrative, to steer the ship. But not this time.
“Sure, Franco,” I say, my tone breezy as I type the address into my phone’s GPS. “I’ll do that.”