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“I realize this is hard for you, Charlotte. However, I need to know if—”
“Leave.” One of the local police officers walks up to the table, his eyes hard as they land on Matthew. “You have no jurisdiction here. Get out.” The officer isn’t much older than Agent Hayes, but he’s a little softer, as though Agent Hayes has seen some shit and lived to tell the tale. He makes this officer look like a rookie.
“Now see, that’s where you’re wrong, Officer…” Agent Hayes trails off, throwing one arm across the booth and eyeing the cop. “Talbit?” He says his name like a question. “I have reason to believe that someone put a hit on Salvatore Bonanno.”
I can feel wrinkles ripple across my forehead as I absorb Sal’s name. I never really asked about his full name. He introduced himself as Sal, and from what I can recall, his last name wasn’t Bonanno but Brasco.
Odd.
“Yeah, and who told you that?” the cop spits at the FBI agent, anger radiating off him. I want to scoot away, but something feels off. The cop’s face contorts, and he grinds his jaw. I’ve only ever interacted with the cops once—the night Sal chose to serve beer—and this cop wasn’t mean. He was nice and patient.
He really doesn’t want Agent Hayes here.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information, Officer,” Agent Hayes retorts, his tone laced with unsettling satisfaction. His good ole boy demeanor morphs into a calculated irritant, stoking the officer’s ire.
A part of me wants to break it up, and another darker part of me is curious, because I didn’t tell a soul what happened between me and what I now realize was a hitman—a man who let me live.
“We’ll see about that,” the officer sneers at Agent Hayes before looking at me, his face softening and his body angling as though he wants to protect me from the agent. Strange. “Charlotte, I have an officer ready to take you home.”
“That won’t be necessary, Talbit,” Agent Hayes drawls. “I’ve got Miss Hart here. Don’t you worry about her.”
Before this turns into a pissing contest, I snap at both of them. “I can walk, thank you,” I say with conviction. “Is there anything else you need from me?” I look at both of them pointedly. “That’s what I thought.” I move to get out of the booth, feeling steadier than I did a moment ago but also knowing it’s all a show. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
I don’t know what shit show I stepped into, but I need to get out of here. I push past the officer and FBI agent, letting them bicker behind me as I head toward the locker room while clutching my phone to my chest. From the corner of my eye, I see blood pooling toward the drain in the kitchen, and I briskly walk past it.
There’s still blood on me. I know there is, and I do my best to ignore that fact as I enter the locker room and grab my things. I don’t put them on as I rush out the backdoor and into the dead of the night.
Once the cold air slaps me in the face, I feel as though I can finally breathe easier. I gulp down the cold air, letting it fill my lungs and seep through my body. Tossing my stuff on an outdoor table, I shrug on my coat, only thinking about simple things.
My coat, my zipper, the crochet hat my mom made before she died that I tug over my dirty hair, and the matching scarf that I wrap around my neck. The simple actions that I took for granted in the past allow me not to think too deeply and just exist.
That is all I’m doing right now—existing, breathing, and performing the most basic of functions. Living is for another day.
Tugging my coat closed, I weave through the iron tables in the courtyard and out onto the side street. Normally, I’d walk down Main Street and then cut toward Walnut, but today, I want to avoid Main Street and the cop cars.
Lights dance off the windows in blues and reds, and despite the late hour, many people sit on their porches, watching the scene unfold at The Tulip.
Needing to get the hell out of there, I cut down the alley. It’s not my regular route, but the only thing on my mind is escape—escape toward a hot shower, where I can rub my skin raw and set my clothing on fire.
“Charlotte, wait.” Footsteps pound behind me, followed by the thud of a door.
I don’t wait as Special Agent Matthew Hayes catches up to me, and that’s who he needs to stay to me, not Matty.
A cloud of breath whooshes out of me as Agent Hayes steps up beside me. He doesn’t once touch me, so that’s a point in his favor, but I don’t stop.
“Let me walk you home,” he rushes out.
“Why?” I side-eye him. “So you can question me on the way?”
He sheepishly glances at the ground. “Busted,” he says casually before talking once again. “Listen, the cops aren’t working with me and—”
“You hope I will?” I snort and pause at the end of the alley. “Why is an FBI agent investigating the murder of a diner owner? Furthermore, how did you get here so fast?”
“You won’t give me anything if I don’t answer you,” he states before facing me. “All right,” he drawls. “If I’m not mistaken, you stated over the 911 call that Sal was executed, yes?”
I say nothing because yes, that’s what I said. I used that exact word.Executed.Those calls are recorded, and I’m guessing this agent was listening in on the call.
“Thought so,” Agent Hayes says, his long hair trapped under his coat. It’s odd to notice, but then again, I’m trying my best not to look at his face. “Do you know who the Bonanno family is, Charlotte?”
