Page 57 of Shattered

“The personal kind or the professional kind?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. But for what it’s worth, the personal kind tends to be more important.” He stepped aside to let me pass. “Go. I’ll handle Singapore.”

Twenty minutes later I was outside Delia’s building, staring at the buzzer and trying to decide if this was a terrible idea.

I hadn’t seen her in three days. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. Had given her the space she’d said she needed even though it felt like cutting off my own arm.

I pressed the buzzer.

“Hello?” Her voice crackled through the speaker.

“It’s me. Maria called. It’s your mom.”

The door buzzed open immediately.

She was already waiting in her doorway when I reached the fourth floor. Hair in a messy bun, dark circles under hereyes, wearing sweatpants and a paint-stained shirt. She looked exhausted—beautiful, and exhausted.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Your mom’s having a bad day. Maria can’t reach Daniel. She’s asking for you.”

“Right. Okay.” She grabbed her jacket and keys. Didn’t quite meet my eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

We didn’t talk on the drive. She stared out the window at Brooklyn passing by while I tried to focus on the road and not on the fact that she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“How have you been?” I asked at last.

“Fine.”

“Delia.”

“I’ve been great, Axel. Fantastic. Living my best life.” She said it flat. Sarcastic. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

“You started it.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “Fair point.”

At the care facility, Maria met us at the door looking frazzled. “Thank god. She’s in her room. Be prepared, she’s very confused today.”

Elena was sitting up in bed, clutching a tissue box, looking small and fragile in a way that made something in my chest twist. When she saw Delia, her entire face lit up.

“There you are! Finally!” She reached out with both hands. “I’ve been trying to tell them. Trying to make them understand.”

Delia sat on the edge of the bed, taking her mother’s hands. “I’m here, Mom. What do you need to tell me?”

“The letters. I found the letters.” Elena’s grip was desperate. “In his room. Years ago. I found them and I kept them because I thought you weren’t ready but now you need to know. You need to know before it’s too late.”

“What letters, Mom?”

“Love letters. To you. From your husband.” Elena looked at me then, something flickering in her eyes. Recognition mixed with confusion. “He wrote you so many letters. Beautiful letters. About how much he loved you. How he’s always loved you.”

My blood went cold.