Caterina
As I open my eyes and look up at the popcorn ceiling, the shock from my father's confession still lingers.
Gianni murdered Mom.
I didn’t expect to wake up with anything else on my mind after the revelation Dad dropped on me last night. It’s not something that’s easy to forget or move past.
The whole situation makes no sense. Despite spending hours cleaning the house last night—trying to channel the restless energy after putting Dad to bed—I couldn’t answer the most pressing question: Why?
Why would Gianni want to kill my mom? She wasn’t anyone extraordinary—just an average person. From what Dad told me, she had no connection to his world. They didn’t know each other, and Tatiana and I didn’t even meet until years after Mom passed away. I’m frustrated trying to find any connection that would make sense.
My muscles ache as I sit up, stretching my arms over my head. I’m regretting trying to sleep since I spent most of the night tossing and turning. I might have had a few hours of restless nightmares about Mom—nightmares I hadn’t experienced before. Previously, my dreams of her were ordinary and comforting, like cooking together or going shopping. They were never nightmares until now.
Dad always said Mom died in a car accident when I was eight. At that age, I didn’t question his explanation. You don’t question a parent when they’re your only remaining family, especially when they’re heartbroken themselves. If there was more to the story, he probably thought I was too young to handle it.
Thirteen years later, he never mentioned she was murdered.
I glance out the window and see his car still in the driveway. His bedroom door remains shut when I peek into the hall. He’s likely still in there, sleeping off his drunken state. Last night was the first time I saw him that intoxicated, barely able to stay awake and mumbling incoherently. I hope it was just nonsense.
If it’s not, Gianni isn’t just the man I fell for—he’s the one who shattered my childhood and my father's heart, altering our lives forever.
And the worst part is, he lied. I can’t believe he’s been hiding this truth all along. Unless he’s committed so many crimes that he’s lost track of them, which is horrifying to consider. I shudder as I wash up and get dressed.
I can’t go to work today. Even though I’ve already missed significant time, I can’t focus on anything but Dad and his confession.
“I’m sorry,” I leave in a voicemail for Sam, while setting up my toiletries. “I thought I was ready to return, but I’m still too shaken. I can log in from my laptop if you need me, but it might be best if I work from home today.” I doubt Mr. Adams expects me to work, but I want to offer. I’m aware of how precarious my situation is—I don’t want to be seen as a problem employee. I need to stay employed to eventually get my own place and keep saving.
I just can’t manage it today, especially since I still need to apply some makeup to cover the bruising from the accident that wasn’t an accident. It’s a good thing I woke up before Dad and got ready before he could see me. I can already picture his reaction—he’d never let me leave if he saw my face.
I can't help but feel guilty for lying to my boss as I go downstairs and head straight back to the kitchen. I don’t want him to regret hiring me. How was I supposed to know my life would implode around me? I didn’t choose any of this.
There isn't enough coffee in the world to make me feel human this morning, yet something tells me we are both going to need it. One thing I didn't have the chance to do last night while putting the house back together was go out for groceries. It was too late, anyway. I would make breakfast if there were anything more than a few takeout containers and a quart of milk in the fridge. Something greasy to help with the way Dad's going to feel this morning.
This sight of the empty fridge is one more concern to tack on with the rest. This isn't him. He spent years raising me by himself, and we never had help in the house. When I was old enough, I started taking on some responsibilities, but it's not like the man forgot how to go grocery shopping. I came home for last-minute visits during college and never found the house in disarray.
Could it really be true? Could this be the big case he's been working on, exhausting himself with? The case he was finally starting to break the last time we were together? And there I was, without the first clue what it was all about.
I must be the worst daughter in the world, because as I fix a pot of coffee, I don't know whether I want this to all be in his head or not. It’s sad but true. It might be better to think Dad is losing his grip on reality, for at least then it wouldn't mean I’ve betrayed him, my mother, and myself by falling for Gianni. How could I be so selfish? Stupid? To think I was falling for the man who ripped my entire life to pieces.
I can't even blame Gianni for it. I walked into this knowing he was no good for me. Hell, that was half the fun.
Footsteps overhead make my stomach flip and my pulse stutter, but I pull it together, sitting at the square kitchen table as I cautiously watch Dad shuffle into the room wearing last night’s clothes. “You weren’t a dream,” he murmurs with the ghost of a smile. There’s recognizable pain in his bloodshot eyes, but he leans down to brush a kiss over the top of my head anyway.
“Nope. I’m here, live and in the flesh.”
“I hardly remember you coming in last night.” He opens the refrigerator door and winces when the light hits his eyes. I could’ve told him it was a waste of time.
“I helped you to bed.” I observe him from the corner of my eye while sipping my coffee, waiting for his memory to clear up. Wondering if he’ll remember the things he said.
“I was wondering how I ended up there.” At least he’s not trying to laugh it off. There’s an appropriate amount of sheepishness in his voice. “I’m sorry you walked in on me like that.”
When he reaches for a mug from the cabinet, he finally notices his surroundings. “Wait a second, did you clean the kitchen?”
What was the first hint? Being able to see the bottom of the sink? “No, the housecleaning fairy must’ve visited in the middle of the night,” I joke.
“Honey, you didn’t have to do that.” He sinks into the chair across from me, groaning softly. “I shudder to think of all the questions you must have about how things have been going around here.”
“Questions? Worries are more like it.”
“I don’t need you worrying about your old man.” He takes a gulp of his coffee before setting the mug down, his hands trembling. “Things have been crazy at the station. Sometimes I barely have time to microwave a meal before going to bed. I don’t always notice when the dishes start to pile up.”
Or the dust gets thicker, or the beer bottles line the counter. My teeth sink into my tongue before I can say something that will hurt his feelings. I don’t want to do that. No matter how irritated I am, he either doesn’t remember last night or doesn’t want to admit he does.
It’s like being with Gianni, in a way. Wondering if I can say what’s on my mind. If Dad indeed did forget what he said, what happens if talking about it reminds him? I could pretend it never happened, but I don’t know how long I could keep pretending. This will taint every aspect of our relationship, no matter how hard I try to let it go.
His gaze lingers on the clock, and he takes another sip of coffee. “Shouldn't you be getting ready for work by now?”
“No, I'm taking the day off.” Oh, God, he doesn't know anything about the accident or that I missed a week of work because of it. I keep forgetting. It's like my life has become a web of lies and secrets. Keeping track of who knows what, what I can and can't share, is a full-time job in itself.
It’s not like I could tell him Luciano hit me with his car. It was hard enough to admit he cheated on me. This is considerably worse than that, and I know Dad would go after him for it. I can't face that drama right now. Especially since Luciano is dead. An involuntary shudder rolls through me and I wipe a hand over my cheek without thinking. It’s almost a surprise when my fingers come back blood-free. I’ll never forget how warm the splash of blood across my face was before he fell over my legs.
“Not because of me, I hope. I'm fine.” Wow, and I thought I was a lousy liar. Maybe it's the hangover he's clearly fighting against. The fact that he seems to be hungover gives me a little bit of hope, strangely enough. He's not too far gone if his body still reacts this way to too much alcohol.
“Actually, in case you missed it, I brought bags with me last night. I was thinking about spending a little time here. Not officially moving in but staying for a bit, if it’s okay with you?”