I know the answer, and it makes my molars grind together even as I heave with sobs. Stupid, stupid girl. My little crush ruined my life.
Not just mine. Luciano’s might have been ruined, too. Like we were both pawns.
Another broken sob bursts out of me, and it’s almost enough to make me crumple on the bed. I’m exhausted, body and soul.
Just a little longer. I only need to put up with this a little longer until I’m home. Then I can cry for days if I need to.
No. I go back to work tomorrow. Somehow, I have to pull myself together. Maybe that’s for the best. I need something to take my mind off of all of this.
There I was, imagining our future.
And he did this to me. I’ll never forgive him, just like I’ll never forgive myself.
Instead of trying to sneak out once everything’s packed up, and I’ve put on shorts and a tee that don’t even go together, I fling the door open and march down the hall. I still hear voices shouting somewhere else in the house, the sound bouncing off hardwoods and high ceilings.
He’s still fighting with her, distracted. That’s one good thing that’s come out of this.
Because I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to leave if he found me right now. I know he’d talk me out of it. I should thank her for setting this up. The thought makes me laugh—high-pitched, shrill—as I jog through the front door and out into the courtyard. Her car must be the bright red Bugatti. It’s completely vulgar, just like her.
I don’t care. Let them have each other. I only feel sorry for Tatiana, with a pair of fucked up parents who only want to hurt each other. I wonder if I was just another way for him to hurt her. A chess piece in an endless game.
No, I’m not going to do that to myself. And even if it’s true, what’s the difference? It’s over now. It should never have started.
I climb into my car and toss all my stuff onto the passenger seat. My hands are shaking, and it takes me a second to get the keys in the ignition. The headlights from the car shine bright in the distance. My heart breaks a little more as I drive down the driveway.
I need to calm myself down before I get home because I know Dad’s going to ask a million questions if I stay this distressed. Maybe I’ll tell him I had a fight with the imaginary friend I was staying with, something simple. He’ll pat me on the head and tell me everything will be okay in the morning, and I’ll pretend I believe him. Whatever works.
Anything, so long as he never finds out the truth. I couldn’t bear his disappointment.
And as much as I loathe Gianni now, the thought of my father doing anything to punish him for hurting me is one I can’t handle. I won’t be the vindictive, scorned woman. I won’t let Gianni drag me that far down.
It’s around nine o’clock by the time I pull to a stop in front of the modest house I grew up in. It was the best we could afford. Mom would have liked something bigger, but when he was demoted from detective lieutenant to a regular detective, it meant taking a pay cut.
I can do this.That’s what I have to keep telling myself as I pull my things from the car and carry them up the front steps onto the creaking porch.I can do this.I’ve gotten better at lying to Dad, haven’t I? Not exactly something to be proud of, but it’s what I need to fall back on now.
The lights are on in the living room, and I can hear the TV blaring inside as I fish out my key. “It’s just me!” I call out in a fake, cheerful voice as I open the door. You don’t want to burst in on a detective who keeps a gun in the house. That’s a good way to get shot.
He’s not in the living room, where a ball game is down to the final inning. I grab for the remote to lower the volume. “Do you need a hearing aid?” I ask the empty room. There is a trio of empty beer bottles on the end table next to his favorite chair, but that’s the only evidence of him having sat there.
“Hello?” His car was in the driveway. He could’ve walked down to the corner store. That would explain the blaring TV, a technique to convince would-be intruders there’s somebody home. “Dad? Are you here?”
I cast a look further back into the house, past the dark dining room that never gets used anymore. The kitchen sink is visible from here, and it’s piled high with dirty dishes. There are more bottles on the counter, too, and a stack of filthy pans.
“What the hell has been going on around here?” The quiet house offers up no answers. I don’t know if I should start cleaning or look for him first.
A soft thud from overhead decides for me. “Dad?” I creep toward the foot of the stairs and wrap my hand around the carved post. “You up there?” Only now does it hit me that there could be an intruder in the house.
Goosebumps pebble my skin, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up while I wrestle with the choice of going up the stairs or running out the door.
Running seems to be the way to go, but a voice coming from upstairs stops me before I take off. “Honey? Is that you?”
It’s my father, but it isn’t. His familiar voice is thick, slurred. How many of those bottles has he emptied tonight? My heart’s in my throat as I hurry up the stairs, dreading what I’ll find.
His bedroom door is open, and before I’ve entered the room, I can see the pictures spread out over the double bed he once shared with my mom. Sometimes, he likes to reminisce.
But it’s not like him to get drunk before he does, and that sink didn’t fill up overnight. He could’ve been spiraling all this time while I was too busy screwing up my life to notice. I always think of him as having everything together.
A look at the bedroom tells me otherwise. There are dirty clothes all over the place and a layer of dust covering the dresser. The bed is messy, and there are more of those empty bottles on both nightstands and on the floor beside my dad, who’s on his knees in front of an open box.
“Just the girl I wanted to see.” He raises a bottle to me and narrows his bloodshot eyes like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “You deserve to be here to celebrate with me.”
“What are we celebrating?” His clothes are rumpled—he might’ve slept in them, judging by the looks. His normally clean-shaven face is covered in dark stubble, and his hair is a mess. A clump falls over his forehead when he looks down into the box.
Wedding photos. A quick search of my memory tells me it’s not their anniversary or Mom’s birthday.
“The most beautiful girl in the world.” He picks up one of my favorites, a shot of the two of them walking down the aisle after the ceremony. “I’m telling you, when I saw her coming toward me on your grandpa’s arm, my heart damn near burst.”
He’s beaming in the picture, and Mom is radiant in her full-skirted princess dress. I always planned on wearing it for my wedding someday.
“She could’ve been a model,” I muse, kneeling beside him. God, he reeks of beer and sweat, the complete opposite of the joyful young man in the photo. This isn’t like him. What don’t I know about?
“She could have done anything, but she married me. A damn cop.” He runs his thumb over her cheek before a tear drips from his chin onto the photo. I quickly wipe it away.
“What’s happening, Dad? What are you celebrating?” And if it’s a celebration, why is he crying?
I reach over and move the empty bottles on the floor before he can knock them over as he stumbles his way to standing. “I forgot to tell you. I finally did it.” I don’t know where he thought he was going since he plops down on the bed with a thud.
“Did what?” I’m quick to gather up the things on the bed before he passes out on them. More photos. A baby blanket of mine.
“Found what I’ve been searching for all this time. I knew I would. The evidence… it had to be out there…”
He’s swaying and his head is drooping. “Why don’t you get some rest? We can talk more in the morning.” I ease him back onto the unmade bed and pull the flower-print blankets over him.
He looks up at me, squinting as he rests his head on the pillow. “I did it. I promised her, and I did it.”
“Did what, Dad?”
“I finally found the evidence. I always knew he did it, and now I can pin it on him.”
“Pin what?” I ask gently.
“Your mom’s murder.”
My blood runs cold and a chill sweeps down my neck. “Mom’s murder?” He’d always claimed she was killed in a drive-by, a random case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve never heard him use the word murder before.
“I knew he did it. Everybody knew… I was after him…” His eyes close as he mutters, “The only logical answer…”
“Who, Dad?” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open and meet mine. “Gianni Rossetti. He murdered your mom. I finally have proof.”