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“How are things going there? I haven’t heard anything about Delilah.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to hear.”
“I got word Xander Rossi took it on himself to deal with her.”
Of course. My brother has his finger on the pulse of just about everything. It’s enough to set my teeth on edge. “Took it on himself? He takes nothing on himself. You know it means giving the order to someone else.”
“The result is the same. But she’s okay?”
“For now, yes.” She came so close to being anything but. And it’s my fault. She’s right. I didn’t warn her. I didn’t even give her that much.
“And how are you?”
“Fine. Since when do we check in with each other and talk about our feelings and stuff?”
“What gave you the impression I was concerned with your feelings?” He snickers. Now disappointment leaks into his voice. At least he tried to keep it out at first. “You know I hear things.”
“Maybe you should see a psychiatrist if you’re hearing things.”
“Enough,” he snaps. “Knock it the fuck off with the games. You’re falling the fuck apart. Tell yourself all you want that you’re able to hide it, but I think you know better. You should by now. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gone off the deep end.”
“Deep end? Who the fuck are you talking to? I’m just fine, thank you very much. Deep end. As if I’m not sitting here at my fucking desk right this very minute, going through my inbox even though it’s the most boring fucking thing in the world. Deep end. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And whenever you start throwing out these protests, I know you’re trying to cover something up. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”
“Have you? I am a grown fucking man. I don’t need you checking up on me.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“You’re wasting your time.” I slam the receiver down before he can hand me more of his bullshit. Like I need that today or any other day. His fucking concern. I know what he really wants. An opportunity to say I told you so. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give it to him.
It’s not another two minutes before there’s a sharp knock on my door. I’d scream if I had the energy. “Mr. Diavolo? You have a visitor.”
I recognize the kid when he strolls in. Enzo Moroni, sullen as ever. He hands me a folded, stapled note. Obviously, whoever gave it to him to deliver wanted to make sure he didn’t open it.
It’s from his math instructor. I glance up from the page, lifting an eyebrow. “Contraband?”
“It’s not that big a deal. It’s not like I’m peddling meth.”
“Meth wouldn’t be as serious as bringing a gun. What else do you have?”
He reaches into his pockets with a heavy sigh and pulls out three prescription bottles. Xanax. Adderall. Percocet. “So you raided the family medicine cabinet the last time you were home, huh?” I ask, picking up the painkillers and examining the label in his mother’s name.
“So what? Nobody notices it’s gone. They’ll just get more.”
I turn the bottle over and over in my hand, watching him. He’s a cool one. That much is for sure. Doesn’t look the slightest bit sorry.
I slap the bottle down on the desk, which at least gets a reaction out of him. He jumps, his gaze snapping up and locking on mine. “I don’t care much about the drugs. I do care that you brought a gun in here. Why? Don’t you feel safe here?”
He shrugs. “I mean, I guess. A lot of shit has been going down.”
“You know you can get canned for this, right? We have a zero-tolerance policy on weapons.”
“Like the zero tolerance you have on killing a student?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. That was handled accordingly. This is about you.”
“So what?” Another shrug. “I don’t give a shit. I don’t want to be here, anyway. You kick me out? That’s fine.”
