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“I didn’t think the mob dabbled a great deal in the rental market.” Never mind the dilapidated and ‘just about ready to fall down’ rental market.
It seemed the drive into the city had taken the edge off. My surroundings were more familiar now, and away from that house, it didn’t quite feel like there were men with guns lurking around every corner, even if I could see them plain as day in the cars parked behind us.
“The buildings haven’t been tended to in years,” Amadeo said. “They were on the verge of being condemned when my sister, Freya, stumbled upon them.”
I wasn’t sure how that explained his interest in them.
“Freya has a doctorate in archaeology, and she’s working on another in anthropology.” He shrugged, but an affectionate smile flickered across his face. “She’s a huge fan of old shit. She couldn’t stand the thought of them being torn down, so she asked my father to buy them so she could restore them and rent them out to families who could use a break on the rent.”
“Your family bought these buildings… to help people?” I asked, though, surely, I’d gotten it wrong.
Amadeo laughed. “Seriously messes with your whole bad-guy theory, doesn’t it,perla?”
“I think you’re the one messing with me, Amadeo.”
He blinked, just a little too long. I wondered why.
“Let’s go,” he said, motioning toward the building on the left.
We entered through the wide double door entryway off the main street, but the moment we stepped inside, I stopped moving.
It wasn’t the two men in suits standing in the foyer that gave me pause. It was the ghost.
Memories of my childhood had been sketchy at best, but when I stepped inside the narrow, wood-paneled foyer, I could see my father with his toolbelt around his waist and a screwdriver in his hand, fiddling with the interior entry door that had perhaps come loose on its hinges—I never knew particularly what my father was doing. No eight-year-old cared about loose hinges or faulty wiring or leaky pipes.
“What is it,perla?” Amadeo asked. He’d stopped beside me and had his eyes narrowed in on where I’d been looking.
“It’s nothing.” Nothing that meant anything to him. But I had no photos of my mum or dad. Seeing my father here, now, was the most vivid he’d been in a decade and a half. Vivid, and private.
Before Amadeo could inquire further, I started walking again, through the interior entry door and down the narrow hallway lined with doors to each individual dwelling. I ran my hand along the old, faded wallpaper as I walked, my fingers catching on a peeled-up edge here and there. But I could call to mind no loose panel in the wainscoting, no section of floor my father had lifted up. The whole floor had squeaked—I remembered that, so vividly I could hear it now, imagining it with every step I took.
We walked all the way around the building, but no memory jumped out at me, not until we came to the maintenance door that led to the basement. My dad and I had spent a great deal of time down there, if my memory served me correctly.
I tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked.
“Here,” Amadeo said, retrieving a ring of keys from his trouser pocket and inserting one into the lock.
My father had had a keyring just like it—no keychain, just a ring of a dozen keys or more.
When Amadeo pushed open the door, the aromas of dust, rust, and oil washed over me and broke open something inside, something raw and tender. I turned away, hiding the moisture that welled up in my eyes.
I’d played down there. I’d spent countless hours in that basement, listening to my father whistle while he banged on pipes. I could hear the strange cacophony in my ears like he was down there even now.
Amadeo put his hand on my shoulder, turning me back toward him.
“Are you sure those stairs are safe?” I asked before he could speak.
It was a valid question. The stairs that led down were as old as the rest of the building. The wood treads were clearly rotted out in some places, and there was no railing.
“I’ll go first,” he said, moving a step in front of me while keeping his face turned toward me. “If I don’t fall on my ass, you should be safe.” He waggled his brows then stepped down on the first stair.
I imagined it creaking beneath him, maybe groaning, ready to crack, but he kept going. Once he’d reached the fourth stair down, I followed him as memories of this place tickled my brain more and more with each piece of the cracked concrete floor that came into view. And the pipes that ran all across the ceiling. The big boilers in the corner of the main room.
“Bloody hell, this goddamned thing is older than Moses,”my father had cursed as he banged away at the big boilers. Then he’d see me standing there and mutter something about swear jars. “Don’t tell your mum, Heidi-girl, or I’ll be broke by morning.” He’d smile and I’d smile back because all my father’s cursing felt like our little secret. “Bloody hell”, that had been his favorite. Mine too.
My breath was trapped in my chest. I’d never returned to any of the places I’d been with my parents. I’d never imagined how potently the memories would rush back.
“Heidi?” Amadeo said, tilting my chin up toward him.
