Page 89 of The Voicemail

“You’re concussed?”

“Mildly, according to Dr. Mafia House Call.”

A laugh breaks out of me and turns into a wince.

Maya pulls back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“Everything hurts.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She studies my face, then my shoulder, then the bandages on my wrists. Her eyes go wet again, but she blinks it back with pure aggression.

“I hate this,” she says.

“Me too.”

“I hate him.”

“Which one?”

“All of them. I’m casting a wide net.”

She sits back carefully. “I need to ask you something, and I need you not to give me the version that makes me less worried.”

Her face changes. The humor thins, but it doesn’t disappear completely. Maya without bluntness would scare me more than anything.

“Are you safe here?” she asks.

I look toward the closed bedroom door.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I pick at the edge of the blanket until the thread starts to pull loose. “He killed Tomaso.”

Maya goes quiet. I look at her, bracing for whatever she’s about to say.

“How do you feel about that?” she asks.

“I should probably feel horrified.”

“Probably.”

“I don’t. I was glad,” I admit. “When Alex said he was dead, I was glad.”

Maya’s eyes soften.

“He had my blood on him,” I say, and my voice gets smaller before I can stop it. “He hit me, and I fell, and I twisted so I wouldn’t land on my stomach. I didn’t even think about it first. I just did it.”

Maya freezes. I close my eyes. I said too much.

“Elena.”

I can’t look at her.

“I’m pregnant,” I say.