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We exit the brownstone, and I quickly lock the door while Adalyn hails a cab. I suggest we go across town to eat, hoping we won’t be followed that far if we’re being followed at all.
I reach over, placing my hand on Adalyn’s. I squeeze it and strum my thumb back and forth, hoping to bring her some sense of comfort. It seems calming for me, too. She’s my little sister. I don’t know how she got caught up in whatever is going on, but I know I’m going to get her out of it.
Getusout of it.
Looking out the window as the lights and buildings go by, I realize I’m noticeably more relaxed the further we get from my home. Isn’t that a strange reaction? Thinking my own father, brother, and fiancé are pulling our strings like puppeteers turns my stomach, but I feel at least some relief that Addy isn’t against me.
That is, as long as my hunch about her is true—that she is just as much a pawn in this as I seem to be.
We ride in silence, only glancing at each other every now and then until we arrive in front of a cute little Italian restaurant. I pay the driver and step out onto the curb, Adalyn following just behind me. Looking around, taking in my surroundings, I find that always looking over my shoulder seems to be my new normal. Trying to put that aside, I take the first step toward the entrance with my sister in tow, and we head inside together.
Thankfully, the restaurant is small, so it won’t be hard to keep an eye out for Mr. Dark Eyes. Surely, he isn’t still following me.
I let Adalyn sit with her back facing the door, just in case. I can hardly pay attention as the server comes and takes our drink order because my eyes are too focused on everything else.
Wine, I definitely need wine.
When he walks away, I turn my focus to Adalyn, knowing she’s waiting for me to start the conversation. I’m adamant that we wait until I’m sure no one will be listening. Part of me wants to just blurt everything out and get it all off my chest. Another part feels like I need to be careful, tread lightly and allow her to tell me what she already knows first.
“Adalyn, you know you can trust me, right?” I ask softly.
She hasn’t spoken since we’ve been seated, and she remains quiet now, only nodding. I wait, not wanting to push her too much.
She takes a breath and looks around before finally saying, “Andrea, I don’t have the answers you’re looking for. I promise I don’t. They don’t tell me anything. Andrew asked me what we talked about at the café. They wanted me to call you tonight because Andrew thinks you know more than you’re letting on.”
I want to believe her, but I don’t know if I can.
“Who are ‘they?’ I know Andrew is one, but who else is questioning you?”
If she doesn’t tell me the truth, then I’ll know I was wrong, that I can’t trust her. She looks down, running her thumb nervously across her napkin.
“Dad,” she whispers so low I almost don’t hear her. She looks up and straight into my eyes. “Not like Andrew, though. He isn’t angry or mean. It’s weird, Andrea. I don’t know what’s really going on. They ask me the same things, but it is like their motives are different.”
I only nod, choosing to stay quiet so I don’t interrupt her momentum. I just let her talk.
“Andrew texted me the day we were in the café. He asked if we were having lunch. Dad must have told him I went to the café to meet you. I didn’t respond, so I guess that’s why he just showed up there. He texted me again and said, ‘You’ll tell me every word.’ That’s when I left. I didn’t want you to tell me anything else. I didn’t want to have to tell him anything. I’m sorry, Andrea. I didn’t purposely betray your trust. It’s just that…”
She pauses, wiping away the tears filling her lash line and threatening to spill down her cheeks. “It’s just what? You can tell me,” I urge.
“Dad says sometimes you have to do things for the good of the family. I guess he means sometimes good people do bad things or something. I don’t really know what he means. I just know he and Andrew have been acting strange since Jonathan Swank’s body turned up in the bay.”
The server is back with our wine, and it’s either perfect timing or the worst.
“Sorry for the delay, ladies. Are we ready to order?”
We haven’t even opened our menus.
“We need just a few more minutes, please,” I say as I open the menu.
With a nod, he walks away and leaves us to it. I’m unsure I can even eat, but we’re here, so we should order something.
“What looks good to you?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood—for the moment, at least.
We have a lot more to talk about.
She opens her menu. I watch her eyes move over it, but it doesn’t really seem like she’s really looking at the items.
“Chicken parm is usually my go to,” she says, closing her menu. Her eyes avoid mine.
