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“Hello, Maman. I’ve never been better.”
She picks up a tray. “I’ll make ratatouille tomorrow.”
“That sounds good.”
We say goodbye, and then she leaves my father and me to talk business.
“How did it go?” he asks in a raspy voice.
“Exactly as planned.”
He nods, closes his eyes for a moment, and drags in a long, rattling breath.
My gut clenches. As if in an empathic response, it becomes difficult to breathe.
Time is running out. The specialist’s words repeat in my head. Without an operation, my father has a few months. A year at most. If only he wasn’t so pig-headed about having the surgery.
So precious little left. So much I still want to give.
I won’t let him go to his grave with the worry of unfinished business.
For that reason alone, I take comfort in telling him, “It’s done.” I grip the phone hard, feeling the absence of my signet ring. “Edwards signed.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Sabella
The house is strangely quiet. The clang when I drop my mom’s car key on the table in the entrance sounds unnaturally loud. A smell of apple pie wafts from the kitchen, but the delicious aroma of home baking doesn’t warm me inside and welcome me like it usually does.
Something changed. I don’t feel at home in the house any longer. Angelo destroyed my haven with his despicable betrayal. I’m like a stranger in the place I grew up in. The walls close in on me, but I don’t feel safe outside either. Angelo’s words repeat in my head, that someone will always be watching me. That he’ll always come back for me. But I don’t want to think about him. I can’t. Not now. I have to push those disturbing thoughts aside and do what has to be done.
Taking my phone from my bag that still lies on the floor next to the door, I send a text message to Colin to tell him I won’t be over tonight, making up a feeble excuse of being tired.
Mattie exits from the kitchen as I shove my phone in my pocket.
“There you are.” She scrutinizes me, studying me more closely than usual, and says in a manner much friendlier than her norm, “We’re having dinner in ten minutes. Go wash up quickly.”
Picking at a cuticle, I glance down the hallway. “Where are they?”
“In the study.”
I nod and swallow.
“Are you all right?” she asks, phrasing it as if I shouldn’t be.
I’m not, but I nod again.
“Okay.” She brushes down her skirt. “I’m helping Doris with the final touches to the dinner. Come give us a hand to set the table when you’re done.”
When she goes back to the kitchen, I walk with leaden steps to the study. I stop in the doorframe. My mom sits on the sofa, her eyes unfocussed as she sips amber liquor from a tumbler. Ryan leans against the windowsill with one hand in his pocket and a glass of the same liquor in his other. My dad sits behind his desk, staring into space, his drink standing untouched in front of him.
All three of them turn their gazes to me. As always, Ryan’s face is impassive and his expression neutral. My mom’s jaw is set into a hard line, her brown eyes glittering with something akin to helpless anger. My dad appears tired and dejected, and it sends a jolt of panic through me, because Dad is invincible. I’ve never seen him looking so beaten.
My mom clears her throat. She’s the first to speak, always taking charge of the difficult conversations like the birds and the bees and lessons in morals. “Did Mattie bring you up to speed?”
“Yes.” I avert my gaze, unable to look them in the eyes. “It was me.”
Silence falls over the room.
When I raise my head, my mom is sitting up straighter, staring at me with colorless cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my tongue tripping over the words. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know—”
The glass makes a sharp clink as my mom puts it down on the table. “What did you say?”
I glance between them, from the shock on Mom’s face and the sorrow on Dad’s to the nothingness on Ryan’s. “I deactivated the cameras and the alarm. It was me.”
Mom stands, her arms stiff at her sides. “Why would you do something like that?”
I fix my gaze on a spot on the carpet. “To let Angelo inside the house.”
Another stretch of silence follows, tying my stomach in knots. I wish someone would say something. The quiet judgment is worse than the verbal lashing I deserve. When I dare to lift my head again, my parents are observing me with disappointment. Incomprehension. Even Ryan’s habitual emotionless face shows pity.
“Why?” Mom exclaims, the word no more than a whisper.
“He wanted to wish me a happy birthday.” I wring my hands. “I didn’t know he planned on taking the book.”
