Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Each step made my stomach drop, made my heart flutter, sure someone was going to come charging out of nowhere, screaming at me to get back in my basement.
But no one came.
But even as we broke into the kitchen, Chris doing a quick glance around before he decided the coast was clear, leading me toward a room off of the kitchen.
"Guest bath," he told me, shuffling me inside. "I'll get the food. Take a second to warm up."
Fat chance of that since Arturo—like his son—set the air conditioning to arctic, so the air was blasting through the vent to the side of the sink.
It didn't matter, though. I wasn't going to freeze to death.It was inconvenient and uncomfortable and maybe I did run my hands under hot water before I exited the room, but I was going to be fine.
Chris was waiting with me with a cup of coffee in one hand, a bottle of water tucked under his arm, and what looked like leftover pasta in a paper bowl, a ton of parmesan cheese shredded on top.
"Go on," he said, nodding toward the door, glancing around, paranoid.
I didn't need to be told twice, I flew down the stairs as fast as I dared, worried about them creaking.
Chris followed behind more slowly, bringing everything over to me.
I reached for the coffee first, taking a long sip.
"Eat this," Chris demanded, taking the coffee, setting it down, and handing me the bowl as he set the ankle shackle back into place, giving me a regretful glance as he did so.
"It's okay," I assured him, nodding. He didn't need to feel guilty.
I was going to get myself out of this.
Like I had needed to get myself out of everything else in my life.
In the end, it always came back to me.
If I could single-handedly keep the bakery from bankruptcy, if I could keep my father from getting his kneecaps busted, if I could escape kidnappers, if I could pick up a gun and take the life of my own father, I could get myself free.
This time for good.
My heart would crush at leaving the bakery behind, knowing that if I was gone, the bank would eventually have to take it. And knowing the neighborhood, it would get turned into some truly tragic trendy coffee place with no such thing as old charm, homemade treats, or friendly service from people who genuinely took pride in their work, in the community.
My grandfather would understand given the situation.
Maybe someday, in a new city, far outside the reach of Arturo Costa, I could start again. Maybe I could open a new bakery, name it after my grandfather. No, I didn't have the leather-bound recipe book in his handwriting anymore, but I had the recipes memorized, had them saved in my email in case something ever happened to the original.
It was not the same.
But it was something.
It would still honor his memory.
And it was something positive to look forward to after all this negativity, all this cold, all this uncertainty, all this pain—both old and new.
I waited until Chris looked away, spitting my cuff key into my hand, tucking it under my thigh, then setting to work on the pasta as best I could with the awkward cuffs in the way.
When I finished, he took the bowl, disappearing while I finished my coffee, took one sip of the water, not wanting to put too many fluids in if I didn't know when my next bathroom break might be.
"I'll keep this with me outside the door. You can just call me if you need a sip. Eventually, Arturo is going to remember you need to eat, drink, and use the bathroom. He's not new at this. He's just..." he trailed off, waving his hand.
"Okay," I agreed, nodding, not sure if that filled me with a little hope, or a lot of dread. "Thank you again."
"He'd want it," Chris said, looking grim, making my stomach clench.
I wanted to ask.
If he knew anything, if he'd heard anything.
But, somehow, I also didn't want to know.
It was better not to know.
At least until I was far away from all of this.
Because I wasn't sure that if I learned he'd survived, I would still be able to do it. Pack up. Run off. Start over.
I was pretty sure a part of me would need to see him, would feel indebted to him, would maybe even want to stay with him, get that warm feeling back I'd gotten in a dream.
It was ridiculous. On a rational level, I understood that. But there was no denying the desire was there either.
I had no one left in the world.
If I had him, somehow, I think that would supersede the more rational side of me.
No one wanted to be wholly alone in the world. Even if all he would ever be was a person who had known what I had been through, that would be something, someone, more than I had now.