What happened to the brave woman I’ve always believed myself to be? The woman who stakes out seedy hotels in the dark, who follows men suspected of insurance fraud, who does everything on her own and never gives it a second thought?
But I know what happened to her. She got lost somewhere between the alley and the hospital room, and I’m not sure how to find her again.
I hate feeling like this. Scared. Mad. Sad. Disappointed. And so mixed up inside, I’m not sure where to even start untangling this chaos of emotions.
From the reception desk, there’s a soft cough. A cough that clearly says,Ahem. Do you need any help? Or are you planning on sitting there all night?
Could I? Would they kick me out?
Will Nico come down here, looking for me, or is he relieved that I’m gone?
The man behind the desk coughs again.
My cheeks go hot as I stare hard so hard at the painting, it’s a miracle it doesn’t burst into flames.
What am I going to do? Where can I go?
Why won’t Nico believe me?
Why did I allow myself the tiniest hope that he would?
From across the lobby, a loud ding announces the arrival of one of the elevators.
A moment later, footsteps rush out. Not running, but not walking, either.
As the footsteps hurry across the lobby, a familiar voice asks urgently, “Edwin, have you seen a woman come through? Just in the last hour?”
Nico.
He came looking for me.
“Mr. Parisi,” the receptionist—concierge? security guard?—replies. “If you’re looking?—”
“Sofia!”
I tear my attention away from the painting to see Nico jogging towards me. “Sofia!” His tone is rough. Urgent. Tinged with anger. “What were youthinking?”
Irritation flares. How dare he say that? When he called me a liar? When he accused me of usinghim? How dare he ask why I left?
Nico closes the distance between us in seconds. Once he’s beside my chair, he snaps, “Do you have any idea how much danger you could have put yourself in? And you just left? Without telling me where you were going? You didn’t even take the phone. If something happened to you?—”
He stops.
His angry expression slips, exposing his fear. “Shit, Soph,” he adds more quietly. “I thought you were gone. And without the phone…”
Angry was easier to deal with. But seeing his fear, his worry…
My throat burns.
Hot tears trickle down my cheeks.
Staring at my lap, I whisper, “I couldn’t leave. I tried. But… I was too scared.”
“What?”
Lifting my chin, I force myself to look at him. In a rush, I blurt, “I was too scared. I got to the door and I couldn’t move. I literally couldn’t do it. I stood there like a coward for I don’t know how long, the guy over there probably thinks I’m crazy or that I’m staking out the place to steal something. So I’ve just been looking at this dumb painting wondering why the artist didn’t give the couple an umbrella and feeling sad about it. And I’m mad at you and I’m mad at myself and now I’m crying again and I haven’t cried in ages because it doesn’t fix things and I don’t know what to do.”
In the aftermath of my outburst, my face flames with embarrassment. Why did I say all that? Why couldn’t I have just left already? Why am I such a mess right now?
