Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I stand up to throw my drink away. Hesitating, I pull out the letter and rip it up into a bunch of tiny pieces and throw it away, too. I tell Melody and Paul goodbye, but they don't hear me, too busy sucking face.
I consider pretending I don't see Naz's car, but it's pointless. Instead, I cross the street, walking around and climbing right into the passenger seat. He glances at me. There's no apology in his expression.
"I told you I didn't need a ride into the city."
"I know," he says. "But you said nothing about not needing one back home."
Semantics.
Night is falling, casting most of the house in shadows. It's dreary outside, cold and wet, a light rain falling, the weather matching the feelings simmering inside of me.
I've been back and forth all day, on edge as I roam the house. I can't sit still. I can't do much of anything.
It's Friday.
It felt like it took forever getting here, but yet it came too soon.
I'm not ready.
I don't know if I'll ever be.
"Are you hungry?" Naz asks, stepping into the doorway of the kitchen as I stand in front of the sink, looking out into the back yard. He still hasn't let me out of his sight, but he's attempting conversation now, a semblance of normalcy. "I can order something."
"Actually," I say, turning to him, "I think I'd rather cook."
He's caught off guard. I get a strange thrill at surprising him. "You? Cook?"
"Hey, now," I say defensively. "I can cook."
"Since when?"
"Just because I don't do it doesn't mean I can't. My mother taught me a little bit."
It isn't until the words are already out that I realize what I've said. My eyes widen, regretting the fact that I brought up my mother, like me not speaking about her might make Naz forget she exists. Like the absence of her name on my lips might somehow save lives. He regards me peculiarly as he strolls further into the kitchen, hands in his pockets.
"I remember Carmela's cooking," he says casually. "She was good... much better than Maria. Maria could burn a pot of water with nothing else in it."
Maria…
His wife?
I'm surprised at the ease in his words. I'm not sure how to respond, how to react, merely whispering, "Oh?"
"We had dinner with them that night, you know," he says. "Your mother made lasagna."
I always loved her lasagna. It was my favorite thing she made. I smile at that, but it fades at the recognition of how Naz's story will end.
"We went home afterward, and your mother didn't send any leftovers. I think about that a lot these days. She always sent leftovers when we had dinner there. But she didn't that night." He pauses a few feet in front of me, eyes fixed to mine. "Makes you wonder if she didn't bother because she figured we'd be dead by morning, anyway."
His words send a chill down my spine. I don't want to think that, don't want to believe it. It's so at odds with the woman who raised me to be kind, and loving, and compassionate.
"So yeah," he says, "you can cook if you want, but if it's Ramen noodles, I can't promise I'll eat it."
He offers me a playful smile before walking out. If I hadn't been confused before, I sure am now.
I don't make Ramen. Instead, I make spaghetti and meatballs. It's nothing fancy, not even homemade, everything prepackaged.
Okay, I'm not that good of a cook.
I make up two plates when it's finished, carefully looking around to make sure I won't be caught, before I pull the small vial of white powder from my purse that Paul gave me. I sprinkle it over one of the plates and dispose of the evidence before mixing it in with the sauce. It dissolves easily.
It's invisible, tasteless, and undetectable until it's too late.
I know that from experience.
Taking the plates to the table, I set the tainted one down in front of my seat.
I know Naz. I've figured out his quirks. He pours his own drinks and he rarely trusts food. It's a gamble, trying to predict what he'll do, because if I'm wrong, I'm completely screwed.
Naz joins me at the table, taking his seat, as I take a small bite of the contaminated spaghetti, not enough to knock me out. He watches me before glancing down at his own plate warily. He doesn't say it, but I know what he's thinking.
It might be poisoned.
His eyes meet mine again, suspicious, and I know I got him. He reaches across the table and grabs my plate, switching ours, just in case. He saw me take a bite of that one, so he knows it's safe.
As usual, he offers no apologies. I don't expect one.
Weeks ago, I would've laughed at it, thinking it was a joke, that he was paranoid, but I understand now. I'm the daughter of the man who murdered his family, the daughter of the man who nearly killed him. He may love me, but I don't think he could ever truly trust me one hundred percent.
Can't say I blame him.
I don't deserve it.
Each bite he takes proves it more and more. It's not enough to harm him. Just enough to make him sleep so I can leave.
We drink wine at my suggestion. I need the liquid courage, and I hope intoxication will mask the onset of the drug in his system. I make sure he has his fair share. I need to be coherent enough to walk away.
He's feeling it, whether he realizes it or not.
The man who smiles at me across the table, who speaks playfully, who calls me his little jailbird, reminds me startlingly of the man I fell in love with. Like when we strip away all pretenses, and block all the pain, and anger, he's who exists deep inside.
The monster just overshadows him.
When he's finished, I take our plates to the kitchen. Guilt is nagging at my chest. It's already after ten o'clock. Time is ticking away too fast.