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It doesn't matter that his death was an accident, I took the life of her child's dad. And that's something I can never change.
There's so much I want to say to her, but don't.
Dani walks over to Sarah’s car when she pulls in. Sarah looks with concern to me, to Dani, and back again, then shakes her head and opens the door.
"Is he coming?"
"No."
Sarah narrows her eyes and shoots me a look that says, if you hurt my sister, I will personally kill you. I shrug, because if I hurt her sister, I would lay my neck across a chopping block.
I watch her leave.
Fuck.
It feels like part of my heart left with her.
Before I can wallow in self-fucking-pity, a text comes in from Timeo.
I confirmed my suspicion, and this is huge, Ricco. You gotta come here now. Do not, and I mean it, do not bring Dani with you.
I don't fucking care what he tells me. I don't care what he says, there's nothing he could tell me that's going to change anything between me and Dani.
I call him. He answers on the first ring.
"What is it? Dani just left.”
Left.
"Good. She's gonna need a little space."
There's that goddamn fucking word again. "What the hell do you need to tell me? Tell me now."
I can hear him exhale on the other end of the line.
"That footage, where we identify the cop? In the background, I saw the man that he was nodding to. I did a double take, because it wasn't possible, Ricco.”
A cold chill runs down my spine. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
“It’s her husband, Ricco. He's not dead."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FALSE ALARM
Dani
My sister knows me so well, she doesn't ask questions when I get into her car, crying.
I can tell that it kills her, that she wants to either murder Ricco with her bare hands or find out who hurt me so she can kill them, but she doesn't say anything. At a red light, she reaches out for my hand and gives it a little squeeze, a silent reminder that whatever is making me cry, it’s going to be okay.
I'm not so sure.
"I don't know how to tell you this.” It feels like something out of a movie, so terrible, so dramatic, so violent.
"Does it have to do with Ricco? And did he hurt you?"
"Yes and no, and no, yes." I shake my head, fresh tears falling. I swipe at my eyes, but they will not stop. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to say this, Sarah.”
I don’t want to say it out loud.
“Honey, listen. I know that you’re in love with a criminal. It’s alright. I know this isn’t like normal relationship stuff, okay?” She sighs and squeezes my hand. “But I also know that whatever you’re going to tell me, this is all going to work out.”
I shake my head and swallow. “How do you know that? You can’t cover up real tragedy with bullshit and unrelenting optimism.”
Sighing, she nods. “I know, Dani. But I also know that love is stronger than what threatens to tear us apart. So tell me. Let’s hear it.” Dropping my hand to navigate around a double-parked car, her voice drops. “Share this with someone else. With me. It will help.”
She’s right, it will. And I need to talk about this.
“He lied to me. He told me he was in Tuscany the night Nick died. But now I know the truth, and it’s… it’s so much worse than you can imagine,” I finish in a wobbly whisper.
“Oh, Dani,” she says, swiping at her own eyes as we continue to drive toward Jason’s. I don’t ask her to pull over. I want to see my daughter.
How can I tell Sarah that Ricco killed Nick? That the man I love is the man that took my daughter’s father away from her? She will carry the pain of that tragedy for the rest of her life, and even though one could argue he did me a favor… I don't know how to justify what he did.
"Let's get back to Jason’s. I want to see Emmy."
We drive in silence through the teeming streets of Boston, and as I scan our surroundings, I don’t even know what I'm looking for.
Someone I know? Some sign that hope exists? A threat that might be lurking?
I send Jason a text.
How are things?
There's no answer. I look at the time. It’s way too early for him to be sleeping. They know I'm ridiculously vigilant when it comes to Emmy, and I like to know exactly where she is and if she's okay. Usually, by now, Jason would've sent me pictures of her finger painting in his dining room, eating way too many cookies, or watching endless streams of cartoons she doesn't get to watch at home.
But I realize he hasn’t sent anything.
