Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
She stares at me, eyebrows raised, awaiting an answer. I'm not sure what she expects me to say. It's pretty self-explanatory, I think.
"I'm not his favorite person."
"Obviously," she says, waving toward the building. "I mean, what's the point in us stopping for something to eat if you can't even eat? Why would we come here? Why would you bring me here, knowing that?"
She's speaking loudly, making just as big of a scene as we endured inside, people walking by glancing between us curiously, wondering why she's yelling like she is.
I step toward her. "You asked me a question."
"I asked you a lot of questions, none of which you ever seem to want to answer unless it's convenient for you."
"Convenient?" Her use of that word rubs me the wrong way. Easy… convenient… why do people think these things aren't a hassle for me? "Do you think that was convenient for me, Karissa? You think I enjoyed being berated in front of all those people, that I got a kick out of having him tear me apart in public like that? Do you think I did that for the fun of it, for the hell of it? Because I didn't. I didn't enjoy a second of it. But you asked a question, you said you want to know me, so I showed you."
"Showed me what?"
"Why I don't see my parents."
The anger in her expression melts as she gapes at me, the wheels in her mind turning fast as she puts together the pieces of why we came to this place. It's all there, it always is, if she'd just fucking open her eyes and pay attention. More is caught than taught. But I don't have it in me right now to stand here patiently, to hang out on this dirty, cracked sidewalk while everyone in the goddamn neighborhood watches, waiting for her to get her shit together.
I wave down the street, toward where the car is parked.
"Can we go now, before I pass out?" I ask. "Or do you need to yell at me some more first?"
I see the flash of guilt as she lowers her head and starts walking. I sigh, shaking my head again, my eyes scanning the outside of the deli once more, lingering just a moment on the discoloration where the sign used to be, back when it meant something to the owner, before I single-handedly tarnished a name that used to make him proud.
Vitale's.
As soon as we're in the car, Karissa turns to me, rambling before I can even start the engine. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…"
"Don't apologize."
"But I'm sorry. I really am. The things he said—"
"Are true," I say, cutting her off before she can dwell on it. "I'm not a good man, Karissa. I've told you that, your parents have told you that, and now you've heard it from mine, too. Don't apologize to me for it, because I'm not going to apologize to you. I'm not sorry for being who I am. You wanted to know, so I showed you, end of story. There's nothing left to say."
My words silence her. She turns away from me, shifting her body in the seat, and stares out the window the entire trip to Brooklyn. By the time we make it to the house, the sun is starting to set outside and I'm still not done with everything I need to do. I'm running on no sleep, exhausted mentally and physically, utterly emotionally spent.
I'm a mess.
Frustrated, I pull into the driveway and cut off the car, but I just sit there, not moving. My eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, to the vaguely familiar car parked along the curb. I spotted it as soon as I turned onto the street.
Detective Jameson.
Just great.
I climb out, pausing, as the doors to the lurking car open and the familiar men appear. Detective Jameson approaches as his partner lingers behind, watching.
"Detective," I say when Jameson pauses in the grass a few feet away. "Is there a reason you're here?"
"Just thought I'd check to see how you were doing," he says. "Heard you were already back on your feet. Guess the incident at Cobalt didn't knock you down for long."
I just stare at him. He sounds casual, conversational, but I'm not stupid.
The detective's attention shifts to Karissa when she steps out of the car. "Miss Reed, nice to see you again."
She looks panicked and says nothing.
"Well then," Jameson says, looking away from her to turn back to me, his gaze skimming along the side of my car as he does, looking at the damage. "Tough break about the car."
"It’s not as bad as it looks."
"Still, I know a guy who could fix it for you. You might know him, actually. Name’s Josh Donizetti."
The detective pauses, raising his eyebrows like he’s waiting for some confirmation that I know who he’s speaking of. I do, of course, and he knows I do.
I can see it in his eyes.
"Anyway, he has a shop not far from here. I’m sure he’d give you a good deal. He often works with guys like you." Jameson turns around like he’s going to leave, but pauses, snapping his finger, theatrically sighing. He's a terrible actor. "Oh, right, never mind… totally slipped my mind that the man died recently. Tragic, really. Quite the accident. Car fell on him. You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?"
He glances back at me.
He knows.
Somehow, he knows.
Not good.
"Of course not," I say. "Wouldn’t know a thing about it."
The detective nods, his gaze turning to Karissa. He tips his head, acknowledging her again. "Miss Reed."
I stand there, not moving, watching as the man leaves, the car disappearing down the street. Once they’re gone, I head straight inside, not lingering downstairs, going right up to the bedroom. I pull off my coat and kick off my shoes, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
I can hear Karissa as she comes inside behind me, hear the clink and clank as she fastens all the new locks on the door, hear her footsteps as she carefully makes her way upstairs.