She swallows. “It’s all jumbled up. I remember waking up in a van or an SUV. I couldn’t see properly. Everything felt…” She shuts her eyes for a second, like dragging the memory up hurts. “Wrong. Then I remember something pricking my neck.”
When she looks at me again, there’s fear in her face, but also anger—at herself, at the memory, at the fact that she’s giving me this.
“I think it’s from whoever took me.”
The room goes very quiet.
“From when Russo took you.”
She shakes her head immediately. “It wasn’t Dante.”
The certainty in her voice hits me wrong.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, too sharply. “You barely know him.”
“I know enough.”
My jaw tightens. Enough for what? Enough to trust him? Enough to defend him? Enough to look at me like I’m the villain while she protects another man in my house?
She extends her hand, palm up. “Now give me your phone.”
A humorless sound leaves me. “No,cara. That’s not how this works.”
Her expression hardens at once. “You said?—”
“I said I would let you call him.” I hold her gaze. “You can. From my office. After dinner.”
Her eyes flash. “That was not part of the agreement.”
I shrug, because I know exactly how much it will infuriate her. “It is now.”
She stares at me, fury brightening her face, and for a second I almost admire it. Almost. Then she throws the blanket off and rises from the bed.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I’m right. You need to eat.”
I can still see her in the SUV—white as a sheet, clawing at the door, panic written across every inch of her. I can still hear the way her breathing broke apart. And now all I can think about is a needle at her neck and some bastard leaving ghosts in her head that surface years later in the back of my car.
My voice drops. “If that memory is real, then someone put their hands on you. Drugged you. Moved you.” I pause, watching her face. “And if it wasn’t Russo, then I want to know who the hell it was.”
For one fragile second, something shifts in her expression. Not softness. Not trust. But something dangerously close to being shaken. Then she folds her arms tighter over herself, the oversized hoodie swallowing her whole.
“I told you what I remember. That was the deal.”
“No,” I say. “That was just the beginning.”
Her chin lifts. “You don’t get more.”
I study her for a long moment. The stubborn set of her mouth. The fear she’s trying to bury. The way she says Dante’s name like a shield and looks at me like I’m the blade. Maybe, right now, I am.
“Get dressed,” I say at last. “You’ll have dinner. Then you can make your call.”
Her mouth opens, no doubt to argue again, but I’m already turning toward the door. Because if I stay in that room much longer, I’m going to start asking questions neither of us is ready for. And if Dante Russo had anything to do with this… God help him.
In the kitchen, I make us roast beef sandwiches and cut up raw vegetables to go with them. Simple and fast. Something to keep her occupied long enough to get the call she wants and me the answers I still don’t have.
I’m pouring wine when she finally comes downstairs.
