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He was here and didn’t wake me? Disappointed, I sag against the cabinet. But for the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the loft is quiet.
I look at my watch. It’s six. Part of me wants to call him. Ask him why the hell he didn’t wake me and tell me he’d be leaving again. Then I remember he has no reason to do so. He’s made no commitments to me.
My stomach growls and I realize I didn’t have dinner last night. I go in search of something to eat. In the pantry, I find the box of granola cereal he bought just for me and serve myself a bowl.
Food in hand, I move to peer out one of the large windows at the city below. A window washer is out there, hard at work, hanging on a Bonsun’s chair.Ottis, reads the embroidered name on his gray uniform. I tap my spoon against the spot in front of him. He makes no sign of hearing it. The glass must be pretty thick, because as busy as the street seems, with bumper-to-bumper traffic, pedestrians, and packed shops, none of the sound reaches the tenth floor.
An hour passes, I have another bowl of cereal, and Noah still doesn’t return. Bored, I begin to snoop. At first, it’s just casual, studying artwork hung sporadically. Random knickknacks obviously chosen by a designer. I smile when I walk by my painting he hung on a narrow wall between the living room and bedroom.
Then I dig a little more, going through his clothes, learning his style. Opening cabinets and getting a sense for his more personal habits. Doing things I only thought about in the last few days but didn’t dare while he was here. I guess what they say about idle hands being the devil’s workshop is true. Even as I hook two fingers around the pull on the desk sitting under a window, I know that no good can come from my nosing around.
Opening the drawer, I find neat stacks of papers, documents, and bills.
I allow my gaze to trail over them, scanning the words and numbers on a bank statement. He has a lot of money. Not that I hadn’t expected him to.
But that’s not what has my lips parting on a gasp. It’s the name on the top of the statement.
Noah Tate Esposito.
Suddenly, it feels like all the blood drains from my head, and I take a step back. Esposito. It must be a coincidence. It has to be.
I pull the image of Leonardo Esposito to the forefront of my mind and compare the much older man to Noah, superimposing them.
Same dark hair, chiseled jaw, full lips. Same nose and heavy brow. Similar enough that, yes, they could be related.
Frantic now, I return to the drawer and look for anything that could confirm my suspicion. I find it. My hand trembles as I read the document in my hand. A notarized copy of Leonardo’s Last Will and Testament, in which he names his son, Noah, as Executor of Estate.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
It could be nothing more than a coincidence. An ironic happenstance. It could be a vicious joke Fate is playing on me. Yet the very nature of Leonardo’s criminal world leaves little to chance. The people who live in it rarely do. And something tells me that Noah is no consultant at all. If that’s the case, if he knows what I did…
Dear God, I’m in deep shit.
I stuff the document back into the drawer and slowly step away from it like it’s a deadly viper and one wrong move will have me gripped in its deadly jaws.
One wrong move. But if I don’t move at all, I’m even deader.
That last thought has me spinning on my heel and rushing to the bedroom. It takes a lot not to glance toward the bed I was starting to consider ours. A bed of lies.
Like I did the day my mother left so many years ago, I stuff the agony of betrayal into a box in my mind and swallow down the sob that’s lodged in my throat. There’s no time for that now. Later, when the danger of dying has past, I’ll release it. Analyze it. I’ll pick and prod at it and dissect every inch to determine how I’m to blame for this, sure that it can all be traced back to sheer stupidity.
When my mother left, I compartmentalized everything. Saved it for another time because my father needed me. But when I did eventually get to it, I couldn’t see how her leaving had anything to do with us. The entire blame lay on her shoulders. That’s why I knew that loving her hadn’t been a mistake.
I’m not so sure I’ll come to the same conclusion this time. That thought has me pausing as I tug off Noah’s T-shirt.
Later, Em. Later. You can deal with this shit later. If you don’t, there won’tbea later.
I slip on the pair of jeans and shirt I came with, thrusting my feet into the flip-flops I placed in his closet.
Rushing to the living room, where I left it, I search for my cell phone. It’s not on the side table or on the floor. Almost desperately, I shove my hands into the cushions, reaching as deep as they’ll go. Nothing.
Shit. I can waste time and search, or I can get the hell out and talk to Dad in person. I opt for the latter.
I make my way to the elevator doors. However, when I get there and push the square button, nothing happens.
“Come on!” I grit through my teeth as I press it again and again. Nothing. It doesn’t light up. Doesn’t ding. In fact, there’s no indication that the thing is powered at all.
Frantic, I attempt to open it manually, digging my short nails between the doors and pulling with all my might. All I manage to do is rip off a good chunk of the nail on my index finger.
