Silent Fall

moment later. "They’re swirling around -- anger, jealousy, competitiveness, passion. I can sense them all. It’s like a dark, thick cloud. I feel a little short of breath."
    Dylan paused, his eyes narrowing. "Are you getting another vision?"
    "Not a vision, but goose bumps," she said, holding out her arms to show him.
    "TV news is a ruthless business. The stories that come through here can be horrific. Maybe that’s what you’re picking up on. We’re almost done here." He entered his cubicle and immediately began rifling through the drawers. A moment later he pulled out a manila envelope. "Here it is." Opening the envelope, he dumped two tapes onto the desk. "They’re still safe. Finally, a break." He put the tapes back into the envelope, then stopped. "What’s this?" he muttered, picking up a DVD case. "Looks like someone left me a present."
    Catherine’s nerves began to tighten as Dylan turned on his computer. "Maybe you shouldn’t put that in."
    "Someone wants me to see whatever is on this DVD. And I’m going to look."
    "It could be part of the plan. It could be booby-trapped."
    His gaze darkened. "It’s just a disc. It’s not an explosive device. And it could be about one of the other stories I’ve been working on."
    She doubted that, but there was no stopping Dylan.
    He slipped the disc into the drive, and a moment later a video began to play. She moved in closer, not sure what they were looking at.
    "It’s the Metro Club," Dylan said. "I think this is a video from the security camera in the back room of the club."
    They watched for several moments. Erica came into view holding two martini glasses. She moved across the room and set them down at a table where two men were in deep conversation.
    Dylan sucked in a breath. "Oh, my God."
    "Who are they?" she asked.
    "That’s Ravino on the left," he said, his voice rough. "And the other man is my father."

Chapter Twelve

    Catherine couldn’t believe Dylan’s words. She squinted at the screen, taking a better look at the men. Ravino was a blond-haired man in his forties. He was lean, and his face was long and angular. Dylan’s father’s face was square, his shoulders broad like a football player’s, his jaw strong and determined. Whatever they were talking about had brought tension to both of their expressions. Then Erica said something, and the men smiled. Ravino got up and followed Erica across the room. They stopped to speak to another man, who had his back to the camera, and then someone walked in front of the group, blocking them all from view.
    "Damn," Dylan swore as the video went blank.
    "Who was that?" Catherine asked.
    "I don’t know."
    "Play it again."
    They watched in silence as the video replayed. When they came to the last bit Dylan hit pause. "That ring looks familiar. Where have I seen that before?" He pointed to the ring on the finger of the man who now had his hand on Erica’s back.
    Unfortunately he couldn’t see anything more than that hand, as someone in the forefront blocked the view. Dylan pressed play again, and the video shut off in exactly the same spot. Dylan played the video three more times, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk with each run-through. Catherine could see the frustration in his face as he tried to identify other people in the video, but the only one besides Ravino whom he recognized for sure was his father.
    She didn’t know what it meant, but too many things pointed to Dylan’s father to be ignored. The fact that she’d been drawn to the wedding photo at his grandmother’s house -- even the fact that they were at his grandmother’s house -- seemed as if it were meant to be. But would Dylan’s own father want to see his son put in jail? Given what she knew about the man -- his pride, his big reputation -- why would he want to risk that to hurt Dylan? Or was his dislike so intense, so strong, that he’d jeopardize it all to send Dylan to jail?
    "Why does he hate you so much?" she asked. "You can’t tell me you haven’t wondered over the years where so much of his animosity comes from."
    Dylan hesitated, then shrugged. "I came up with dozens of reasons, but who knows the truth? My father is a perfectionist, a control freak. He couldn’t stand a messy room, a spilled cup, any kind of chaos, and I was the kid who always came home with dirt on my shoes and a rip in my clothes. It made him