They had come for something.
Or someone.
Ronan stood in the private dining room, staring at the empty bowl.
Tessa sat across from him.
She had a small cut on her forehead.
She was holding a towel against it.
"You need a doctor," Ronan said.
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
Tessa looked at him.
"You need a doctor too."
Ronan raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not bleeding."
"You're shaking."
He looked down.
His right hand was trembling slightly.
He closed it into a fist.
The shaking stopped.
Tessa noticed.
"You really haven't eaten in fourteen years?"
"Not normally."
"What does that mean?"
"I survive."
"That's not an answer."
"It is for me."
Tessa studied him.
He looked different now.
Not like the man she had heard about.
Not like the ruthless businessman whose name made restaurant owners lower their voices.
He looked like someone who had been carrying an unbearable weight for too long.
Ronan picked up the folded note.
For the Callahan boy.
"Eda kept this for years," he said.
Tessa nodded.
"I found it tonight."
"Why didn't she ever tell you?"
"I don't know."
"Did she know your parents?"
"I don't think so."
"Did she know who I was?"
"Apparently."
Ronan leaned back.
"Tell me everything about her."
Tessa hesitated.
"Why?"
"Because tonight, my dead mother's recipe appeared in a restaurant kitchen fourteen years after she died."
He paused.
"And the woman who taught you that recipe had a note specifically naming me."
Tessa looked down.
"Eda wasn't just a cook."
"What was she?"
"She was a guardian."
Ronan frowned.
"Guardian?"
Tessa nodded.
"When I was nine, my mother disappeared."
Ronan's expression changed.
"What was her name?"
"Claire Rowe."
The name meant nothing to him.
Tessa continued.
"She left me at Eda's house one night. She said she'd come back."
"Did she?"
"No."
Ronan was silent.
"How long ago?"
"Eighteen years."
"And your father?"
"I never knew him."
Ronan stared at her.
"Neither did I."
Tessa looked up.
"What?"
"My father died when I was nineteen."
"Your mother too?"
"My mother died three years earlier."
Tessa frowned.
"You were nineteen when your mother died?"
"Yes."
"And that's when you stopped eating?"
Ronan didn't answer.
Tessa understood.
The silence was answer enough.
He looked at her.
"My mother was killed in a house fire."
Tessa's eyes widened.
"The Callahan fire?"
"You know about it?"
"Everyone in New Orleans knows."
The official story had been simple.
Fourteen years earlier, a warehouse owned by Callahan Shipping had caught fire shortly after midnight.
The blaze spread to an adjacent property.
Ronan's mother, Eleanor Callahan, had been inside the family's private residence above the warehouse offices.
She died in the fire.
Ronan survived.
His father survived for three years before dying under mysterious circumstances.
The case had been ruled an accident.
Ronan had never believed it.
Neither had his father's old friends.
Neither had half the city.
But no one had ever produced evidence.
Ronan looked at Tessa.
"My mother wasn't supposed to be there that night."
"Why was she?"
"She was meeting someone."
"Who?"
"I never found out."
Tessa slowly reached into her pocket.
She pulled out the note.
"There may be more."
Ronan stared.
"What do you mean?"
"Eda used to keep things."
"What things?"
"Letters. Recipes. Photographs. Newspaper clippings."
"Where?"
Tessa hesitated.
"Her house."
"Is it still standing?"
"Yes."
Ronan stood immediately.
"Take me there."
Tessa looked at the clock.
"It's nearly midnight."
"I know."
"You just survived an attack."
"I know."
"You should probably wait until morning."
"No."
His answer was quiet.
Tessa sighed.
"Fine."
They left through the rear entrance.
The city was wet with recent rain.
New Orleans glowed around them.
Ronan's convoy waited outside.
Tessa stopped.
"How many cars do you need?"
"Four."
"For a visit to an old woman's house?"
"Three are security."
"And the fourth?"
"Mine."
She shook her head.
"You really are ridiculous."
One of Ronan's men looked horrified.
Ronan almost smiled.
Almost.
Eda's house stood on a narrow street near the edge of the Garden District.
It was small.
Old.
Paint peeling from the porch.
A magnolia tree grew beside the front steps.
Tessa unlocked the door.
The house smelled like dust and dried herbs.
Ronan entered slowly.
For someone who had spent his life inside mansions and private compounds, he looked strangely uncomfortable in the little house.
Tessa switched on the light.
"Eda lived here for thirty-six years."
Ronan looked around.
"She didn't have much."
"She didn't need much."
They entered the kitchen.
The old stove was still there.
Tessa touched it.
"This is where she taught me."
Ronan noticed a framed photograph.
He picked it up.
It showed a younger Eda standing beside a woman.
A woman with dark hair.
Elegant.
Beautiful.
His mother.
Ronan stopped breathing.
"Tessa."
She turned.
"What?"
He held up the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was always there."
Ronan stared.
The photograph was dated twenty-two years earlier.
His mother had been thirty-five.
Eda was standing beside her.
And between them stood a little boy.
Ronan.
Nineteen years old.
Except there was something wrong.
The photograph had been taken years before Ronan believed Eda had ever met his family.
He turned it over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Eleanor, Eda, Ronan — Christmas Eve.
Ronan's fingers tightened.
"Eda knew me."
Tessa came closer.
"Apparently."
"No."
He shook his head.
"Not apparently."
He looked at the photograph.
"My mother brought me here."
"Why?"
"I don't remember."
"You were nineteen."
"I remember almost nothing from that year."
Tessa studied him.
"Because of the trauma?"
"Maybe."
Ronan suddenly looked toward the kitchen cabinets.
"What's that?"
Tessa followed his gaze.
An old wooden cabinet stood against the wall.
She opened it.
Inside were jars.
Spices.
Dried herbs.
Old cookbooks.
At the very back was a metal box.
Ronan pulled it out.
Locked.
Tessa looked at him.
"Eda never gave me a key."
Ronan examined the box.
Then he noticed something underneath.
A small envelope.
His name was written on it.
RONAN.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he opened it.
Inside was a single letter.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
His mother's.
Ronan sat down.
His hands trembled.
He began reading.
My dear Ronan,
If you are reading this, then something has gone wrong.
I don't know whether I will be alive when you find this.
I need you to trust Eda.
I need you to remember that the fire was not an accident.
And above all, I need you to know that your father was not the man you think he was.
Ronan stopped.
Tessa watched him.
"What does it say?"
He continued.
There are men around us who have been taking money from the company for years.
Your father found out.
I found out afterward.
We thought we could expose them.
We were wrong.
If something happens to me, Eda will protect you.
Don't trust anyone who tells you the fire was accidental.
The person who ordered it is closer than you think.