And they never reached out again in all the months that followed.
I press the phone to my ear and wait for the call to connect, already expecting rejection.
“Hello?”
The sound of his voice makes me close my eyes.
“Uncle,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I add, quickly, “Please don’t hang up.”
“Hello, Maya.” His voice is cold. Nothing like the man who treated me like a daughter and who I thought of as a father.
I close my eyes again and rest my forehead against the cold wall of the common area, trying to block out the sound of the blaring TV.
“Is Aunt Cynthia there?” I ask. “If Chloe is too, put it on speaker. I want to talk to all of you.”
I hear the phone being shifted. When he confirms, I start.
“I found a good lawyer. My trial was in October. I’ve been in a residential reentry center since then, and in just over two weeks, I’ll be free on supervised release. Being here forced me to think about a lot of things.”
I take a breath, swallowing the pride that has always been my primary source of nourishment.
“And I realized I never apologized. Or thanked you. For always being there for me.”
When they don’t say anything, I keep going. I confess every wrong. I thank them for each kindness. I apologize especially to Uncle Thomas, the one I manipulated most, crying on cue, exploiting his guilt over my mother’s death.
I’m running out of time. The call is about to end, so I just ask for forgiveness.
It’s Chloe who finally speaks. “We already forgave you, Maya,” my cousin says gently. “We always wanted what was best for you. We just couldn’t keep supporting the path you chose for your life.”
She hesitates. “Can we pick you up when you get out?”
I smile, holding back tears. Real ones this time.
“Yes, please. I’d really like that.”
I hang up and wipe my face, forcing my head high. At least now I have something to look forward to in my last days in this hellhole.
And it won’t hurt to have somewhere to land once I’m out. The thought brings a smile to my lips as I head back to my room.
Chapter 30
December
our way home
Cecily
I’m deep into the research a source sent me for my last article of the year when a commotion outside breaks my focus. At first, I figure it’s nothing. Just background noise, kids on the street, or neighbors talking. But then... I hear Italian.
And there’s no way to confuse it with anything else.
I cross the office, lean closer to the window, and blink at least three times to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, pressing a hand to my mouth.
As if he can feel my gaze, Alexander turns. Our eyes meet. He smiles—the same smile he always seems to direct only at me—and lifts one shoulder, like what I’m seeing is just another Thursday afternoon in our lives.
My heart forgets how to beat properly.
