THE DEBT

The first thing I noticed was the door. It was open. Not wide. Barely three inches. But I had locked it before leaving for work that morning. I always locked it. I stopped halfway down the corridor, grocery bag pressed against my hip. For a few seconds, I simply stared. Apartment 304. My apartment. My very open door. “Papa?” Nothing. I lowered the bag carefully to the floor. My phone was already in my hand when I approached. I considered calling the police, but stopped with my thumb hovering over the screen. Maybe Everaldo had come home. My father had a key. He also had an impressive talent for forgetting doors, appointments, bills, birthdays, and anything else most adults considered important. “Papa?” Still nothing. I pushed the door with two fingers. The living room looked as though someone had picked it up and shaken it. Cushions lay on the floor. The cabinet beneath the television stood open. Papers covered the tiles, and one of the drawers from the side table had been pulled out completely. “Oh, God.” I stepped inside. My father's documents were everywhere. Tax papers. Old receipts. Bank statements. The warranty for a refrigerator we'd stopped owning three years ago because Everaldo believed throwing away paperwork invited bad luck. The painting above the small wall safe had been removed. My stomach tightened. The safe was open. Empty. I shut the door behind me and called my father. Straight to voicemail. I tried again. Nothing. “Of course.” I rubbed my forehead. “Fantastic, Papa. Really fantastic.” I sent him a message. Where are you? Call me NOW. The message didn't deliver. That was when irritation finally gave way to fear. Everaldo had disappeared before. Once for an entire weekend after losing money he refused to admit he'd gambled. Another time he'd spent three days with a friend in Bento Gonçalves and apparently forgotten that telephones existed. This felt different. Someone had searched our home. I bent to pick up one of the bank statements. A sound came from the living room. Leather shifting. I froze. There was someone in my father's chair. I hadn't seen him because the lamp beside the window was off. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs. The man sat with one ankle resting over his opposite knee, perfectly still. Watching me. I reached for my phone. “Don't.” His voice wasn't loud. That somehow made it worse. I backed toward the door. Another man stepped into view beside it. Huge. Short dark hair threaded with gray. Heavy shoulders. A scar beneath his jaw. I hadn't heard him move. “Who are you?” The seated man leaned forward. Light from the kitchen reached his face. He looked somewhere in his early forties, with dark hair touched faintly by silver at the temples. His suit was black, his shirt open at the collar. No tie. He didn't look like someone who had broken into an apartment. He looked like someone who had bought the building. “Where is your father, Alícia?” Every hair on my arms rose. “I asked who you are.” “I heard you.” “Then answer me.” The large man near the door glanced toward him. For half a second, I thought I saw amusement. The seated man's expression didn't change. “Leôncio Sartori.” The name landed before I could stop it. I knew Sartori. Not personally. People like me didn't personally know men like Leôncio Sartori. But I knew the companies. Sartori Logística. Sartori Vinhos. Real-estate developments. Warehouses. Hotels. Sponsorship banners at events around the region. And then there were the stories. Stories people lowered their voices to tell. I looked at the man blocking my door again. Then back at Leôncio. “I don't know where my father is.” “I haven't accused you of knowing.” “You broke into my apartment.” “The door was already damaged.” “That makes this better?” “No.” At least he had the decency not to pretend. I held my phone tighter. “If you're looking for my father, call him.” “We did.” “Then you understand my problem.” His gaze dropped briefly to the phone in my hand. “He isn't answering you either.” It wasn't a question. “How do you know that?” He ignored it. “Sit down.” “No.” The large man looked away, and this time I definitely caught the beginning of a smile. Leôncio noticed. “Something funny, Benício?” “Not at all.” I stared between them. This was insane. “I want you both out.” Leôncio stood. That was when I realized how tall he was. I had expected him to be perhaps average height because the chair had swallowed some of his size. Standing, he seemed to take up far too much of my already tiny living room. I stepped backward automatically. He noticed that too. Something tightened around his mouth. He stopped approaching. “Your father worked for me.” “My father is an independent financial consultant.” “That's what he told you?” My embarrassment came hot and immediate. I hated his tone. “He works with several businesses.” “Yes.” “So?” “One of them is mine.” I folded my arms. “What does this have to do with someone tearing apart our apartment?” Leôncio looked toward the open safe. “Your father stole from me.” I stared at him. Then I laughed. I couldn't help it. Benício raised an eyebrow. Leôncio remained expressionless. “Sorry,” I said. “You have the wrong Everaldo Bellaver.” “I don't.” “My father doesn't have the courage to steal from a supermarket.” “People become remarkably courageous around money.” “How much?” Leôncio watched me. “Enough.” “That isn't a number.” “Fourteen million reais.” My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then I laughed again, but there was no humor in it this time. “My father can barely remember his online banking password.” Benício coughed into his fist. I looked at him. “Was that a laugh?” “No.” “It sounded like one.” “Seasonal allergies.” “In winter?” He shrugged. Despite myself, something almost resembling a smile pulled at my mouth. Leôncio looked at Benício. Benício immediately became fascinated by the wall. The absurdity lasted two seconds. Then Leôncio placed a folder on the table. “Look.” “I don't want to.” “You should.” He opened it. The first photograph showed my father entering an office building. The second showed him inside what appeared to be a private room. Then came bank records. Numbers. Transfers. Accounts I didn't recognize. I picked up one page. My father's name was there. My fingers became cold. “No.” Leôncio said nothing. “He wouldn't…” I stopped. Because the truth was uglier. I didn't know what my father would do. Everaldo loved me. I believed that. But he lied. Small lies. Big lies. Stupid lies that didn't even need telling. There had always been another investment. Another friend. Another explanation for why rent was late. I dropped the document. “Where is he?” “If I knew, I wouldn't be sitting in your apartment.” “What do you want from me?” “The truth.” “I've given it to you.” “Has your father contacted you?” “No.” “Did he leave anything?” “No.” “Did he mention leaving Caxias?” “No.” “Did he give you a package, drive, document, key?” “No.” His questions came calmly. Mine didn't. “I don't know anything!” Silence filled the room. My chest rose too quickly. I hated that they could see I was scared. Leôncio's expression shifted slightly. “I believe you.” I blinked. That wasn't what I'd expected. “Good. Then leave.” “We can't.” “We?” “You're coming with us.” For a moment, I genuinely thought I'd misunderstood him. “Excuse me?” Benício straightened. Leôncio remained irritatingly calm. “You can't stay here.” “This is my home.” “Which someone searched before we arrived.” “Then I'll call the police.” “And tell them what?” “That someone broke into my apartment.” “Do that.” I frowned. That had been too easy. Then he added, “After you're somewhere safe.” I stared at him. “I'm not going anywhere with you.” “There are people looking for what your father took.” “That sounds like your problem.” “It became yours when he disappeared.” Anger pushed through my fear. “My father stole from you, so now I'm responsible?” “No.” “Then why are you here?” His eyes held mine. “Because you're what he left behind.” The words hurt more than they should have. I looked away. “No.” I picked up my bag from beside the door. Benício moved in front of it. “Please step aside.” “Alícia.” “I wasn't talking to you.” Leôncio's voice sharpened. “Benício.” Benício immediately moved. I grabbed the handle. For one foolish second, I thought I'd won. Then Leôncio spoke behind me. “If you walk out alone, you won't make it to the end of the street.” My hand stopped. I turned. “Is that a threat?” “No.” He reached into his jacket. I flinched. He stopped. Slowly, he removed a photograph instead. He placed it on the table. A black car. My stomach dropped. I'd seen it twice that week. Once outside work. Yesterday near the bakery. “This was taken two hours ago,” Leôncio said. “Who are they?” “We don't know yet.” I stared at the photograph. For the first time, going with him didn't sound like the most dangerous option. That frightened me even more. Ten minutes later, I was in the elevator between two armed strangers with a small bag of clothes Benício had packed. I looked inside. Two shirts. Underwear. One sneaker. I looked at him. “Where's the other shoe?” He frowned into the bag. “I assumed there were two.” “You assumed?” “I don't usually pack women's luggage.” “Clearly.” His mouth twitched. Leôncio gave us both a look. The elevator doors opened. A black SUV waited outside. Cold night air hit my face. Before getting inside, I turned toward Leôncio. “I don't trust you.” “I haven't asked you to.” “Then tell me why I should go anywhere with you.” For the first time all night, something unreadable moved through his eyes. “Because the men following you aren't the only reason your father left you here.” My pulse stumbled. “What does that mean?” Leôncio opened the rear door. “Get in.” “No. Tell me.” His gaze settled on me with an intensity that made the cold disappear. Then he said quietly, “Your father knew exactly who would come for you.” I stopped breathing. Leôncio waited beside the open car door. And for the first time that night, I wondered if my father had been running from Leôncio Sartori at all. Or if he had been running toward him by leaving me behind.