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“I wanted you to come in so I could tell you to your face to keep that asshole away from my kids. Don’t let him get away with this. I’m sorry I didn’t listen last week.” She sniffles and wipes her tears on the sleeve of her jumpsuit.
“It’s fine. Do you need anything? Money on your books? I can send you a care package or something.”
“The kids are already putting something together with Ma. She has the list of shit that’s allowed in here. Certain stuff will get confiscated, so don’t overthink it, Evil. Anita already ran into issues trying to send me a spiral notebook. The spring or whatever can be used as a weapon. They just throw the stuff out, I think. Such a fucking waste.”
“Do you need me to do anything? I can have my husband talk to your husband?”
She smiles. “The same way Dad used to talk to your boyfriends?”
“Less has a way of talking that really sticks with you. No guy can walk away with his feelings or skin intact.” It’s a joke that gets me a mild kick under the table. “Ow, you troll, I was just trying to make you laugh.”
“Don’t.” She giggles. “It hurts when I laugh. I think they broke a rib.”
“Fuck, what are they doing now to keep you safe? Dad says he was going to pull some strings?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know about Dad, but my lawyer said she got a call from some law firm saying they work with a few prison reform charities, and due to my attack, I’m a candidate for some program. I don’t know. I kind of tune her out since she’s done a shit job of getting me out of here.”
“You want to get out, like I mean really get out?” I ask her.
“I’m not snitching on my husband, Ev. He's a piece of shit, but I think this stuff with the kids is him trying to be a good father. He doesn’t want them around the life, and I can’t blame him. I’m just not ready to throw that towel in. If anyone gets them away from this, it’s going to be me.”
“Okay, Shay. Whenever you’re ready to get out of here, you know what you have to do. They want to know where his skeletons are buried.”
“Doing that puts Dad in a bad position, too. It’s not… Peter’s a lawyer. There’s no attorney client privilege. I don’t think he’ll hold his own in a place like this, and this is the women’s facility. I can’t even think about the torture?—”
“Stop, don’t stress about him.”
“How can I not, Ev?” She sniffs back tears. “I’ve been looking after him for over fifteen years. He’s not supposed to act like this. We’re supposed to be stronger than this.”
“Martin, time’s up!” the guard calls from the doorway.
“Thanks for coming, Evelyn. You have no idea how much I needed to see a face I can trust. I love you.”
“I love you too, Shana.”
The drag of her feet, dullness of her hair, and limp in her gait make me ache to get her out of here. Alessandro’s a lawyer. I know he said he’s working on it, but I should ask him for an update.
Outside, I give Jenkins the rundown of what Shana went through. The update agitates him even more than when he picked me up. Being helpless isn’t a familiar feeling for him. I know he hates not being able to do anything for us.
The best way to get out of this funk is to cook. So, we take the drive through the boroughs, stopping at some of my favorite shops to get primo cuts of meat to cook for dinner. After letting Alessandro know I’ll be having dinner in Brooklyn, I find myself at my parents’ house alone.
Ma’s gone to take the kids to their afterschool activities, and Dad, well, he’s somewhere in the city. I lose myself in the dinner prep, sending out hopes and prayers that Shana is safe until we can get her home.
Two rib-eye steaks for Dad and me, and a pesto sausage lasagna for everyone else. The flurry of activity that happens when Courtney and Roman get home is intense, far more enthusiasm than I remember.
“Zia Evie! Yes!” Roman tucks his elbow into his ribs in triumph. “I’m so happy you’re home and cooking. Nan’s been making soggy chicken Parm all week.”
“I’ll show you soggy,” Ma shouts from the doorway. “I slave over a hot stove and this is the thanks I get. You’re on bathroom duty for the rest of the week.”
Roman groans and stomps out of the kitchen. Unfortunately for him, my father steps in to see the reaction and is less than happy.
Dad grips him by the shoulders. “Hey, is that how you talk to your Zia and Nan? Is that how you behave for the women who take care of you?”
“No, Sir.” Roman sulks and turns to face us. “I’m sorry. I’ll go clean up the bathroom.”
“Good boy. Now, what’s that I smell?”
“I have a rib-eye ready to go in the pan for you, Dad. Ma, you can have the other one if you want. I put a pesto and sausage lasagna in the oven. Should be ready in about twenty minutes.”
