It’s Bobby. I can feel his legs beside me, hairy and warm, like a big friendly teddy bear.
“Not much, we’re just stuck dealing with the fallout.”
That’s Mr. Morelli. He must be standing by the bed.
“There were always going to be casualties,” says a third voice. The sore patch on my neck throbs. It’s Doc. Is he here because he’s forgiven me? Is everything okay?
“What if it’s a coincidence?” Bobby asks.
Doc snorts. “Parker moves in on the warehouse and the next morning the old woman’s in the hospital?”
The sound of flesh hitting flesh.
“Chiudi quel cazzo di bocca,” Eli hisses.Shut your fucking mouth.
I feel all three pairs of eyes on me. I let tiny trickles of breath run in and out of my nose, the rest of me is still as stone.
“Thank fucking Christ,” Eli mutters. “This conversation is over. Get dressed and come downstairs.”
The covers shift and Bobby’s warmth leaves my body.
The old woman’s in the hospital.Why would one person being hurt matter if the warehouse was attacked and lots of people were hurt? My body feels it before my mind understands. A sharp cramp in my stomach. My eyes fly open. Doc and Eli are at the bedroom door, Bobby has frozen, his t-shirt halfway on.
“Zia Teresa is in the hospital,” I say. “Mr. Parker attacked her.”
They have no time to lie. The answer is written on each of their faces.
Eli starts to say something, but a hole is opening inside me, a hole where Zia Teresa stands, smoking and telling me what to do. I scream and the sound comes from deep inside and goes on and on and on.
Bobby presses his hands to his ears. Doc bolts from the room. In a stride Eli is beside me. He grips my cheek and slaps me across the face. But I keep screaming. I scream until my head swells and my eyes blur. I will scream until I die.
Out of the haze comes Doc. With a needle. He jabs it in my arm and darkness falls.
Chapter Seventeen
January Whitehall
Ispend sevendays alone, locked in the east wing. Every morning Harvey or Mr. Gretzky brought me food I didn’t eat. I pleaded with them to tell me something—anything—about my Zia, about what the others were doing. They never did. One time Mr. Gretzky asked if he could have Eli’s ruby necklace back. “If he wants it, he can get it himself,’ I told him.
Eli never came.
On the third day I tried to pick the lock on my door with a pair of nail scissors. I had no clue what I was doing and the scissors slipped and cut my hand. Doc burst into the room with another needle. When I woke up, anything I could use to break stuff or hurt myself was gone. He left the necklace though.
On the morning of the eighth day, I come up with a plan. It’s terrible and probably going to get me killed, but I don’t care what happens to me now. If Zia Teresa got hurt because of Mr. Parker, then nothing else matters. She has four daughters and eleven grandkids and she’s already giving her whole life to me. I need to get out of here and make sure she’s okay. Besides, everyone from my old life must already think I’m dead by now. I have nothing left to lose.
I put on my lightest dress, strip off my socks and braid my hair, tucking Zia’s St. Christopher into the tightest folds. The wind is howling outside, bending the great big trees almost in half.
When I hear someone coming, I press my ear to the hardwood floor. A slow, even tread says it’s Mr. Gretzky bringing me breakfast. He’s who I was hoping for. He always comes further into the room than Harvey and he seems more inclined to deal with a problem himself than contact the guys.
I open the bedroom window as wide as it will go, then creep behind the door. Part of me knows this can’t work. It’s a childish trick Margot and I played on each other when we were kids. Hiding behind the door then jumping out and yelling ‘boo!’ But it’s the best I have.
Mr. Gretzky knocks on the door. “Miss Whitehall? Your breakfast.”
He unlocks the door, and it swings out, concealing my body. My heart pounds against my chest so hard I’m afraid he’ll hear it. He takes a step forward and puts the breakfast tray on my dresser. “Miss Whitehall?”
I try not to breathe.
“Oh shit,” Mr. Gretzky says, and I hear a flurry of footsteps.
