Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
The thought is like swallowing a mouthful of cranberries—sweet with a bitter edge. I used to raid the bush in my grandmother’s garden when we visited her on Sundays, and I always ended up with stomachache. Back then, I took a lot for granted. But I don’t want to ponder on that. I don’t want to overthink what I can’t change.
Pushing the raw memory and its painful association away, I focus on what needs to be done, which is satisfying my treasure’s craving.
When I get home, it’s five thirty. Yet Anya is still up, sitting at the island unit in the kitchen with a bowl of squishy tomatoes in front of her. She must really be desperate for the sauce if she waited for two hours.
The splatters on the cupboards are gone and the floor is shiny. I should’ve told her not to exert herself with tidying up the spillage. The cleaning team comes in tomorrow. At least she put on a sweater. I dip my head to study her legs. Socks too. I’m glad she listened.
“You battled to find it,” she says, making a guilty face.
I put my shopping on the counter. “A few shops were out of stock.”
She’s got her head stuck inside the bag before I’ve removed my coat. Pulling out the bottle of sauce by its neck, she clutches it like a treasure against her chest. “Thank you.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “You’re welcome.”
“You got more tomatoes too,” she says excitedly as she continues to investigate the contents of the bag. “Sun-dried tomatoes. Yum.”
I take a seat opposite her and watch with fascination as she removes the seal in the lid and shakes a generous amount of sauce over the messy puree in her bowl before mixing everything together. When she dips a spoon into that brownish slush and brings it to her lips, I shudder.
“Mm.” She closes her eyes and hums her approval. “Oh my God. This is delicious.” Holding out the spoon, she asks, “Want to try it?”
I squint at her meal. “No thanks.”
“Good.” She shoves another spoonful into her mouth. “More for me.”
“Your baby has strange tastes,” I note with humor.
“Tell me about it,” she says between bites. Or sips. “And I don’t even like tomatoes.” She licks a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth. “At least, I didn’t until you cooked that sauce.”
I’m riveted by the scene in front of me. If she licks her lips like that, I can watch her eat weird food all night. “I’ll have to make more then.”
“Yes, please. I’m on board. If it’s not too much trouble.” She adds quickly, “After all, you have to eat too.”
“Right.” And I’ll happily eat spaghetti and marinara sauce every night if it makes her and the baby happy.
She pushes her empty bowl aside and rubs her stomach. “I can’t have another bite.”
“Feeling better?”
“That was exactly what I needed.” Her smile is shy. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance.” Taking her hand, I help her to her feet. “Next time, wake me up.”
She pulls free. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snooped around, but I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”
“One, there’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re living here. What’s mine is yours. You’re free to eat and cook and do what the hell ever you please in this house. Two, you can never disturb me. I thought the worst when I found you gone.”
“Really?” She tilts her head. “Where would I have gone?”
Instead of telling her about those ugly scenarios that embedded themselves in my psyche, I say, “Just wake me up, okay?”
She frowns, but she doesn’t argue.
“Good girl. Now back to bed with you.”
“Let me tidy—”
“The cleaners can take care of it tomorrow.” I point at the door. “Go.”
She goes obediently, sneaking a look at me over her shoulder.
In the silence that follows after her exit, I lean my palms on the counter and hang my head between my shoulders.
I’ve been through some scary shit in my life, but what I imagined tonight is at the top of that list with all the other gruesome scenes where I barely walked away with my life.
Did I overreact?
Yes and no.
I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, but I couldn’t take a risk either. I know how badly Luigi wants to put a bullet in Anya’s head. Our snitch in the force confirmed the forensics team didn’t find anything on the murder scene that could tie the homicide to Giorgio or me. In time, I won’t need an alibi because I won’t be a suspect. That doesn’t mean something won’t come up in the future. I’m not taking that chance. Luigi, on the other hand, thinks letting Anya live is a bigger risk. Sooner or later, he’ll insist that I finish her, and if I don’t comply, he’ll get someone else to do it.