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“Why are you so hell-bent on that?”
He simply shakes his head, his shoes tapping the floor in a restless rhythm. “I’ve got to go. Don’t forget, Charlotte, that I’ll protect you from them, even if you run to them,” he mutters, not sparing me a backward glance as he strides toward the exit. My lips remain sealed, my silence an agreement of his departure.
No remorse tugs at me for holding back. In the span of a single phone call, I might have unwittingly shattered a sanctuary for a woman fleeing the clutches of the mafia.
The uncertainty claws at me, a relentless presence. I need to unearth the identity of this enigmatic daughter. Once revealed, I’ll decipher their character, their motives, and whether they had a hand in Sal’s demise.
The truth always finds the light of day.
Twelve
Growing up,I never had thatonefriend who knew every little thing about me. Instead, I shuffled through different groups, seeking the missing puzzle piece that would click into place. It wasn’t as though I felt incomplete, not initially. The idea of someone complimenting me seemed foreign and unnecessary.
The invitations trickled in—sleepovers, bonfires, birthday bashes—but amidst the laughter and camaraderie, I remained a perpetual outsider. It wasn’t due to a lack of interaction, but rather the presence of something everyone else seemed to possess—theirperson.
Not having a best friend feels like a constant ache in my chest. On occasion, in the past, it never bothered me, and sometimes it did.
Then I thought about it and realized just how strange friendship is. I’m just supposed to walk up to someone, look at them, and say,hey, you seem like a cool person. I will keep you for seven to ten years and see if our friendship thrives or fails.
Yeah, that just seemed strange to me.
When I enrolled in college, I felt forced to engage. On the first day, when there were introductions, and I stood under the scrutiny of peers, I’d rather have faced a pit of vipers. Socializing drained me, a relentless vacuum that depleted my energy until I felt hollow. Conversations became an intricate dance, where every step was a calculated move and each word was chosen with precision.
And then there was Tatum. She wasn’t there in my formative years, but she appeared in the tangled tapestry of adulthood. A vision with bold red lipstick and elegantly swept up hair, she exuded a self-assured aura. Her eyes, a shade hovering on the edge of amber, held depths of wisdom that I couldn’t help but envy. Tatum’s makeup was minimal, her signature red lipstick a testament to her effortless confidence. Dressed in a crimson plaid skirt and a thigh buckle, she embodied the enigmatic charm ofdressed to kill.
She is my person, and she knows that I’m now watching the clock. Tatum took Milo up to bed an hour ago. The hands of the clock creep toward ten, the hour when our weekly gathering will dissolve after our hours of laughter, wine, and cathartic venting about our week.
Her knowing gaze sweeps over the living room, where the five of us sit on my sofa. It’s the one time when we allow ourselves to just bitch about everything, and it works because the rest of the week, we rarely complain…or at least I don’t.
Harlow sits closest to me. Her auburn hair glitters in the dim light, her icy blue eyes lighting up as she reacts to something Autumn says next to her.
Amidst this symphony of connection, I realize that my journey through friendless years led me to this—to Tatum, to these moments, and to a sense of belonging I had once deemed elusive. In the darkness of our shared stories, I find comfort from being truly seen, truly heard, and in that shared vulnerability, I finally discover what it means to have that one person.
She also knows more than the others. I’m ready to call it a night.
“Does anyone have any information about Sal’s murder?” Jani’s voice slices through the air, capturing the attention of everyone present. She shifts, freeing herself from her corkscrew curls, and sets her empty wine glass on the coffee table. “I heard someone shot him.” We all know she’s casting her line and fishing for morsels of gossip.
Jani has always possessed an insatiable curiosity, a trait that’s not always to her advantage. Her thirst for knowledge seems to govern her every interaction. Most of us indulge her, offering straightforward replies to quench her quest for information. Tonight, however, is different.
Harlow reacts first, her glass making a gentle clink against the table’s surface before she clears her throat. “The newspaper hasn’t published anything yet.”
“That’s because old gal Beckett needs to retire,” Tatum interjects, her lips brushing the rim of her wine glass. Her gaze sweeps over the group, her eyes glinting with mischief. “She can’t even see past her own nose, let alone report accurate news.”
“I get most of my updates from social media,” Jani admits, her voice contemplative. “But I haven’t come across anything about Sal.”
My heart leaps into my throat. They all know I was working that night, and eventually, they’ll turn their inquisitive gazes my way. I’ll have to play the game and wear the mask of surprise, of horror.
None of that resonates with me though. No surprise, no horror. Just a lingering sense of unease that taints the entire situation.
“Well, I’m sure the police will uncover the truth behind his death,” Autumn offers, her gaze briefly meeting mine. There’s something in that eye contact that unsettles me. How could it not? I stood there and watched his life ebb away, my tears withheld until the ordeal ended.
“The police?” Jani snorts, her skepticism palpable. “You mean the police parked right outside?”
“Rookies have to start somewhere,” Harlow mumbles under her breath, shifting her weight as she stretches from her seat. “I’m going to see if either is up for a quick fling.”
Suppressing a snort, I almost choke on my wine. Harlow, a self-proclaimed hedonist, embraces pleasure in all its forms, physical or mental. She’s a modern-day hippie with an edge, occasionally disappearing from the grid for days. She claims it’s about unplugging and rediscovering herself. It’s quintessential Harlow, so it doesn’t surprise me that she is the first to dip out.
“Do you need me to walk you out?” I look up at her, taking in the weariness etched beneath her eyes. It’s not the kind of tiredness a good night’s sleep can cure.
