“I sent emails. I searched for any trace of you online. Nothing!” My vision blurs and I bite my lip. “Ilovedyou, Kian. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving you, and you discarded me like I was nothing, like I—”
“You brought them to our door!” he bellows, his fist driving into the wall next to my head.
I jolt, stunned into silence.
A vein jumps in his temple, a wet sheen clouding his eyes.
His pained eyes.
“What?”
“The Association,” he grinds out, “you led them straight to us.”
No, he can’t—What?
“I waited for you at Hollow Gardens for hours…hoping you’d show up. And during this time—” His voice cracks. “They went to my apartment, tied up my parents. They—”
“No.” My mind is stuck on his earlier statement. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. “I didn’t. You told me not to. I was careful. I never told anyone—”
I gasp, my eyes snapping up to his.
“Young lady, do you know where I can find the Lestes?” the taller gentleman asks with a smile as I descend the stairs after bidding Elias’s parents goodbye and leaving my note on the entryway table.
I stop mid-step and frown, unsure how to respond.
The man motions to the shorter man by his side, who holds up two large paper bags.
“We’re their cousins from Albania,” he explains, his voice thick with a foreign accent, “b-but I lost their address in the cab. Silly me.”
I eye their appearance—the tall one in a clean suit, the shorter one sharply dressed in a polo. They don’t look like the thugs loitering around the corners, cigarettes dangling from their lips.
The tall man rubs his head like he’s embarrassed. “The young lady must think we’re stupid. Show her thephotos.”
The shorter man laughs and sets the bags on the floor. I catch brightly wrapped packages within. He fishes out his wallet and pulls out a photo.
I smile—it’s a family photo of the Lestes. God, Kian was so much younger back then. The baby fat on his face, so cute.
Clearing my throat, I eye the duo again. I bite my lip and make a decision.
“Stay here,” I murmur. “Let me check.”
The men sigh with clear relief. “Thank you, dear.”
I run back upstairs.
My vision refocuses on my cold, brutal husband staring at me with anguish.
“They were your relatives,” I whisper. “Your cousins.”
An icy chill slithers up my spine, up, up, up, until it wraps around my lungs.
“We don’t have cousins. We don’t have relatives in Albania, Lana.”
No. No. No. I clamp my hands over my ears. This can’t be.
The floor slants. My legs give out from under me.
Tears slide down my face. Faces flash behind my eyes—the small woman with a tired smile, his dad who’d give me a snack whenever I visited. Cute little Beatrice, with her rolls and giggles, always bringing a grin to my face. Sofia following me around, imitating the way I walk and talk, much to Kian’s embarrassment.
