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This neighborhood on Staten Island is absolutely still compared to Damian’s penthouse in the city.
When the SUV comes to a stop, the three men file out.
Someone opens the front door. Another soldier.
This is Damian’s safe house? Is that why he didn’t want me to tell Lucas?
One of the men opens my door and I slip out. It’s so quiet here. You never realize how much you miss the quiet until you hear it again. Feel it again. It’s the strangest thing.
The man gestures for me to go to the front entrance.
I look at it for a moment.
The house was never as still when I was growing up as it is now. Scott and I were always running around and creating a commotion.
My heartbeat isn’t frantic, but it has picked up. I haven’t been here in over eight years. Not since after the funeral luncheon my uncle organized for my father. That day, I was like a ghost in my own home.
Liam had come. He was around eight years old then. I wouldn’t go near the study. It was off-limits anyway. My uncle had locked the door, but even being near it, down the hall from it, it upset me.
I knew my father hadn’t killed himself. I knew those men had killed him. And I hadn’t told a soul. I couldn’t.
Liam and I had sat in my room for most of that afternoon. He’d even helped me pack some toys to bring with me to his house. My new home.
“Mrs. Di Santo?”
I blink, looking at the man in confusion when he repeats it.
Mrs. Di Santo. That’s me.
“We need to get you inside.”
I nod and follow him toward the front door. Taking the three steps, I look up at the tall lampposts outside. They’d still been on that night. They must have only cut the power inside the house.
A gust of wind chills me as I get to the front door. I hug my borrowed jacket closer. Emotion and memory collide the instant I step into the foyer. It’s like walking into a ghost room. Although it’s clean, most of the furniture is covered with dust cloths. Those pieces that aren’t, that the soldiers are obviously using, like the sofa in the living room and the dining room table and chairs, I recognize. It’s all the same. He hasn’t changed anything. Even the smell of the place is the same.
The door closes behind me and I jump.
Looking back, I see the man who gave me his jacket, so I slip it off and hand it back to him. “Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
“How long will we be here?”
“Until we get the all clear. Kitchen is stocked if you need anything. You’re free to go to your old room. Please let me know where you will be at all times.”
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph.”
“Joseph. Okay. How many men are here?”
“Just three. But you’re safe. No one knows this location and the gates are locked.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“There were explosions on four of the shipping yards that house Di Santo ships.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Damian hurt?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Can I use a phone?”
“No, ma’am.” His phone rings then and he excuses himself.
I bite my lip. I want to call Liam. He must be worried. I just dropped the phone.
Looking down the hall toward the study door makes my heart beat faster. My breathing tightens as I remember Damian that night. I can almost picture us standing here in the hallway. I can almost feel what I felt then.
There used to be a phone in my dad’s study. I wonder if it’s still there. I can use that to call Liam.
I walk down the hall toward it, trying to keep the emotions that are flooding me from taking me under. I have to do this. See this.
Family photos hang along the walls here and all over the house. It was my mom’s project. She’d add to the collections every Christmas, having us pick our favorites and helping her frame them. She took great photos. It was a hobby of hers.
I stop to look at each one we pass.
We’re at the beach in this one. I must be six or seven, and everyone looks so happy. Scott, my dad, and I are soaked from a swim. I have on goggles too big for my face and a snorkel. Scott is biting into a huge wedge of watermelon, his goggles on top of his head, feet still in the flippers. His hair’s almost as long as mine. He hated going to the barber.
It’s been years since I’ve seen these. Since I’ve thought about any of this. Since I’ve wanted to remember. All these years, it was easier to block it all out. Just not think about it because it was so painful. And it’s still painful although I’m more numb now. But underneath that layer of numbness, hurt and loss still throb.
