Chapter 4 The Address

214 Hollis Row doesn’t scream danger when you look at it. If anything, it just blends in… a nice brick townhouse, black shutters, and a clean brass plate by the door, no name, just a number. The lack of a name almost feels intentional, like it wants to be anonymous.

I’ve walked past buildings like this on the west side more times than I can count. They look private, until you start to notice there’s never a mailbox and the lights are always on but you never see anyone behind the windows. I’ve never had a reason to knock on one, until now.

I sit in my car across the street for eleven minutes, watching the front steps, trying to come up with a better idea. I can't find one. Eventually, my nerves just get tired and I force myself out.

No buzzer, no camera I can spot, but I’d bet money they’re in there somewhere. Probably more than one, probably already watching me from every angle. I walk up the stairs anyway. Three days chasing dead ends has worn down my good sense. I raise my hand to knock, but before I can, the door swings open… not just a crack either, all the way. Slow, patient, like whoever’s inside has been watching me hesitate and finally decided enough is enough.

“Ms. Calloway.”

He says it flat, not a question. Like there was never a chance anyone but me was going to be standing here.

He’s tall, wearing a dark suit… no tie. Stiff, not because he’s calm but because he’s working for it. I notice the details the way I notice everything… he’s in his late twenties, dark eyes, controlled. Most people’s eyes flicker when they first see someone, searching for clues about who you are. He doesn't. He already knows.

“I didn’t give anyone my name,” I say.

“No,” he replies. “You didn’t.”

He steps back and waits for me to go in. I do, against my better judgment… walking into a stranger’s building just because a dead man’s note said so. I’ve known this guy all of eleven seconds, but he’s holding the door and I walk in.

Inside, the place doesn’t fit what I pictured. No show-off velvet, no gold trim, nothing screaming money. It’s all calm lines, soft light, and the place smells like cedar and old books… like a study, not a club.

“You have a name,” I say, once the door clicks shut behind me, and there’s no easy way out. “I want it.”

“Dante.”

“Dante what?”

“Marchetti,” he says, watching for my reaction. I give him nothing, just because I don’t know the name… not yet. Maybe in a week it’ll mean something. He almost looks disappointed, like he hoped the name would hit harder.

“You knew my father,” I say. No question about it. I’m matching the way he talks without meaning to.

“I know who your father was.” He pauses, picking his words. “I know who you are.”

“We’ve never met.”

“No.”

“Then how do you know me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies my face for a beat too long… not the weird way men sometimes look at women, but more like I’m an art forgery he’s comparing to the original. Then, almost to himself, he says, “You have his eyes.”

I freeze. Not the swing-set photo again. I haven’t shown that photo to anybody, haven’t breathed a word about it to anyone. But what he just said is too close to what’s scrawled on the back of that picture. Close enough to knock the breath out of me.

She has his eyes. He’ll want to know she’s safe.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he says. That’s the first time tonight his voice slips… too quick, too smooth. A practiced lie. “Come in, Ms. Calloway. Sit down. I think we have a lot to talk about, and barely any time.”

“I want to know how you know my face.”

“You will.” He doesn’t even pretend to explain. “Not tonight.”

He turns his back, waiting for me to follow. I just stood there for a moment, staring at the back of the man who used words pulled right off a photo of me as a kid… words left by someone I never realized was paying attention. Someone who saw me before I ever knew they existed.

And still, I follow. I tell myself I have nowhere else to be, and that’s not really a lie. There’s a colder truth though, one that settles in my stomach… that the man ahead of me isn’t a stranger, not really. He’s just the first person in days to offer even a piece of the truth. And I can’t afford to walk away from that.