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Sophie wrings my T-shirt to the point of tearing it.
“She has a name,” I chastise. “It’s Sophie.” I reach behind me to hug her waist.
“Sophie,” he parrots, a frown pleating his brow.
Searching his eyes, I ask an unspoken question. “Your niece.”
“Yes.” He glances at her again. “How did she end up here?”
Rubbing a hand over Sophie’s back, I say, “We need to talk.”
His eyes tighten before the creases in the corners even out with understanding. Nodding toward the lounge, he says, “In here.”
“Upstairs.”
The line of his jaw hardens at my blunt contradiction of his order.
Ignoring him, I turn to Sophie and go down on my haunches. “Mr. Russo and I have to discuss something upstairs.”
“Why?” she croaks.
“Sometimes, adults need to talk in privacy. You and Beatrice can wait in the lounge. Did you finish the movie yesterday?”
She shakes her head.
“Why don’t you show Beatrice the end of Toy Story?”
She sticks her head around me, scrutinizing Angelo before averting her eyes. “Is he going to stay like the other man?”
Something like a growl rumbles in Angelo’s chest.
“Fabien?” I say. “He only stayed for a short while.”
“Beatrice doesn’t like Mr. Russo. Is he staying for a short while too?”
I steal a look over my shoulder at my husband who stands with clenched fists near the door, for the first time since I’ve met him appearing out of his depth.
“We’ll see,” I say, turning back to Sophie with a smile. “This is Mr. Russo’s house, so he may decide to stay. Or he may not if he’s busy.”
Behind me, Angelo utters a cuss word under his breath.
I shoot him a frown.
“Can we have popcorn?” Sophie asks.
“Sure.” I straighten. “Make yourself and Beatrice comfortable on the sofa under the blanket, and I’ll make the popcorn.”
Sophie sticks her finger in her mouth and keeps her head low as she skitters around Angelo and darts to the lounge.
Crossing his arms, he widens his stance and studies me while I put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I feel his gaze burning on my back as I set the timer and push the start button.
“The popcorn and the movie,” he says. “It was her.”
I take a bowl from the cupboard. “Yes.”
“She was here.”
“Yes,” I say again, keeping my voice down.
