“I understand your anger and your hurt,” Vitucci said. “I won’t attempt to disavow you of either. I had a greater goal than you, and maybe at some point, you’ll see the bigger picture. For now, what I can say is that I did not know where you were. No one but a select few did. There are levels upon levels upon levels. I had only one way to rescue you and the others. Help you rescue yourselves.”
“You could have notified the police, you sick fuck,” Evan said. “You had proof.”
Vitucci let out a short breath. “The police? The FBI? Some of them are players. Did they help you, Evan? Did they solve the crime? No, of course not. Because they were not meant to. Your own father greased the wheels that drove the investigation straight into a ditch. You have no idea how deep this goes. All the money and all the blackmail. There is one chance, Evan. Only one.”
One chance? One chance for what? And how? What was he saying? That if he’d notified the police, they’d either be unable to find the location on the screen or, worse, they’d cover it up? And how would they identify any of the men who’d done this anyway? They’d worn masks. She felt sick, dizzy.
Vitucci glanced at his watch as if he had somewhere to be.
“The only place you’re going is prison, Vitucci,” Evan said.
The older man gave Evan a small smile. “I’m prepared,” he said. He nodded down to his desk. “If you would, Evan. There’s something for Noelle in that top drawer. But first, I’d like to see her diamond, please.”
Her diamond.
Evan hesitated but then stood, removed the jewelry box from his pocket, walked the few steps to the desk, and placed it down. As Vitucci took it, Evan leaned toward the desk from the side, his gaze held on the older man before he slid the drawer open and removed a manila envelope and a laptop. Noelle let out a small gasp. Was that . . .
“It’s your father’s computer,” Vitucci said as he opened the jewelry box and gazed down at its contents. Noelle thought she heard him exhale or perhaps sigh before he closed the box and focused on her again. “And in that envelope, you will find the photos I took from his house. The best of the shots your mother managed to get and the way in which Dow Maginn was able to access their server. Or at least the one they used at that time. They have, of course, beefed up security since then.” His mouth moved into a smile.
Evan handed Noelle the computer and the envelope, and she took them, setting them on her lap and placing her hands over them. So many questions were tumbling through her mind about her father and Dow she hardly knew where to begin.
“Your father and I shared the same enemy, Noelle, though of course he never knew that,” Vitucci said, obviously reading her confusion. “I made a point to have one of the officers who worked on his case offer my services at a highly discounted rate at the time of the trial against Evan’s father. Your father was deeply distraught, as you know, and he took me up on it.”
Evan let out a whoosh of breath. “You did the same for me,” he said. “You swooped in to help, when you really wanted information.”
“And a connection, yes. But I helped you emotionally, too, Evan, did I not?”
Evan looked away, appearing so incredibly torn. This man had helped him; Evan had told her as much.
“What did you want with my father back then, at the time of the trial?” she asked, saving Evan from having to admit that, yes, this man had helped him. She remembered that moan suddenly, the confession he’d torn from her despite her best efforts.
“I wanted to know about anything that might not have been in the court transcripts,” Vitucci answered. “I wanted to know about your mother, about any small thing that might help me take my enemies down.”
“But you didn’t get that,” she said.
“Not at the time, no. But I was the one who’d originally sent your father to Baudelaire when he’d expressed his deep sadness at having to sell some family heirlooms to pay his debts. Baudelaire paid him far more than they were worth. I’m certain it’s why he returned to him years later to sell the final item he’d kept—your mother’s ring. Baudelaire noticed that he seemed . . . unwell. Desperate. He needed a priest, truth be told. But Baudelaire bought his bauble, and then he called me and suggested I reach out.”
“For therapy.”
“A yearly check-in, I told him, and he didn’t question it. Maybe, to him, it seemed serendipitous. He was having a nervous breakdown. He asked me about medication. I suggested we talk first. He was driving when I called him. I told him to pull over and compose himself and then come straight here. I’d heard that Fontane’s son, Evan, had gone missing. Could that possibly be related to Mr. Meyer’s deeply agitated state? The timing was interesting. Anyway,” he looked at Noelle. “Your father said he’d gotten involved in something he couldn’t get out of. Something online. He’d had his friend hack a site where they hurt people. That’s when I knew it involved them. I knew. But that’s all he would say.”