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A knock sounds on the door. I whirl around, my heart soaring. “Come in?”
It swings open, and Annalisa steps in, her gaze shifting from side to side before landing on the trunk.
“So, this is where you’ve been?” she says, her voice tight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She places her hands on her hips. “You were late with your rent, so I walked up to your boyfriend and demanded cash.”
My jaw drops. “You didn’t.”
“Not really.” She grins. “I couldn’t get close to him, so I spoke to his second in command and told him everything.”
Second in what? I picture the brother with the glasses and frown. She sure as hell can’t be talking about Cesare.
“Okay, and how did you get here?” I ask.
She raises a shoulder. “We hooked up last night and he saw the bruises.”
“Wait.” I roll the trolley into the bedroom so it’s out of the way and I can have a moment to think. “Start from the beginning.”
I sit Annalisa on the chair and walk to the other end of the studio, where there’s a kitchenette with a fully stocked refrigerator. For the first time since moving into the pool house, I open a bottle of white wine.
“Here you go.” I hand her a full glass.
She takes several large gulps and sighs. “That night you threw yourself at Roman and left me to walk home alone, there were police outside our apartment with a warrant for your arrest. What the hell did you do?”
My mind races. “Did they hurt you?”
“Answer my question.”
I pour myself a glass of wine and take a sip. “Some gallery owner wanted to strike back before I reported him on social media for being a scammer.”
“But what was the warrant for?”
“Vandalism, assault, and theft of a silver spoon?” I shake my head, not quite believing that one slimy bastard would set off such an unusual chain of events.
“Are you sure about that?” At my blank look, she adds, “They don’t usually send so many police officers for petty crimes.”
“One of them was my ex,” I mutter.
Her eyes widen. “So, he was trying to get revenge for being dumped?”
“Something like that.” My brows pinch. I really don’t want to talk to her about Jim. “But how did you get here?”
Annalisa launches into an account of how the police have harassed her every day that I’ve gone, urging her to use every method at her disposal to lure me back to Beaumont City.
My stomach churns. I lean against the counter with my arm around my middle, trying to hold in my nausea. Jim didn’t make such bold efforts to find me when I first escaped. Why is he doing so now?
The only thing I did differently was approach galleries to sell my work, which was something I wasn’t confident enough to do under his constant gaslighting.
“I’m so sorry.” I murmur. “None of this makes sense.”
“I actually thought you were a murderer.” She polishes off her wine, sets the glass on the floor, and rolls up her sleeve to expose a livid bruise. “The red-haired detective cornered me on the street, accusing me of knowing your location.”
I gasp. “Jim did that?”
“That was his name. Detective Jim Callahan.”
