14. Anders
Anders
S he’s fucking lying.
I hate that after everything, Carmela still isn’t trusting me with the whole truth. Between her and Mick, I don’t know how they expect me to do my fucking job when they won’t give me all the facts.
There’s a reason for the nursery rhymes. Carmela’s face gives her away. She’s terrified. Shaken down to her marrow.
Something either clicked for her when she read the letter, or this particular message finally rattled her enough to seriously scare her.
Cara crosses the room without another word, grabbing her phone from the discarded bag on her sofa before going into the bathroom. She shuts the door with a soft click. My footsteps are light as I approach the door and stick my ear to it, trying to hear if she’s calling someone or just checking messages while she changes.
Her voice is muffled, but I can still make out what she’s saying. “Hey, Len. I’m sorry, I know it’s late. Is there any chance you can run to Jersey for me?”
Jersey.
Carmela is hiding something in Jersey. The nursery rhymes would make sense if she had a kid, but she doesn’t.
Does she?
No. She lives in the city. I stayed at her apartment. There was no evidence of her having a kid. All she does is work.
“Your guard dog would choose now to whisk you off to Florida,” Carmela says with a gentle laugh. There’s a pause on her end before I hear, “No. No. It’s more than okay. I don’t blame him for wanting to get you out of here. Enjoy it, and tell him when this all blows over, I expect an invitation to this amazing beach house.” Another pause. “I will. You too.”
Hangers rattling on the clothing rack replace her voice. I hear a sniffle followed by a shuddered breath, like she’s trying not to cry. I take my place back by her desk, and when she comes out, she’s wearing a casual navy dress that looks too light for the cool fall weather.
“I’m going to head home. I’ve had enough…excitement for one night.” She won’t look me in the eye as guilt spreads across every inch of her face .
Something tells me Carmela isn’t staying home tonight.
“Do you want me to come? I can stay with you tonight. Or would you rather have Martin and Nikolai escort you?” I don’t want to force my presence on her, but I have a feeling she’s going to say she wants them instead because they don’t know her as well as I do.
“They can take me. I’m tired. I’m just going to go to bed.” The nail bed of her middle finger starts to bleed from her incessant picking at it. She winces as she looks at the blood welling on her fingertip before curling her hand into a fist and holding it at her side. “I’ll see you Monday. I’m just going to stay home all day tomorrow.”
Another lie.
“Alright,” I acquiesce, wanting her to think I’m buying her tired act.
With a tight smile, she gathers her things while I message the guys to come take her home. When they arrive, she allows me to kiss her forehead. “Be safe. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Goodnight, Anders.” I wonder if she realizes she’s being too nice to appear normal. Every little thing she’s doing is a tell, giving away the fact that she’s lying.
Tonight, I intend to find out what it is she’s lying about.
My instincts are correct.
When I first found out where Carmela’s apartment was, I made it my mission to learn all the ins and outs of the complex. After all, that’s part of my job.
I had a feeling she was going to sneak out the back as soon as Martin and Nikolai posted up outside the front of her building. Exactly twenty minutes after she goes upstairs, she exits the back of the structure into the alleyway.
She’s changed into the most informal outfit I’ve ever seen her wear: fitted jeans and a white tee beneath a long camel-colored trench. Her long dark hair is gathered through the closure of a Yankees baseball cap with the bill pulled low over her eyes.
It’s nearing eleven. The lanes are still full of cabs since the city is wide awake. I watch from the shadows across the street as she hails one, paying no mind to her surroundings. Luckily, there’s another empty cab just two behind hers. I get into it and quickly hand him a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “Follow the cab two cars in front of you. Be discreet.”
As if espionage is the most normal thing in the world for him, the driver switches lanes and begins tailing Carmela’s cab without so much as a question .
We drive across the city for what seems like forever, crossing through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Jersey before turning North. I give the driver another couple of bills for keeping up with her cab so well as he lets me out a few houses down from where her car slows.
We’ve stopped on a residential street. Large houses line one side, with the Hudson on the other. The Manhattan skyline lights up the water, mixing with the glow from the streetlamps, making it easy to see which driveway Carmela walks up. Years of working undercover help shield my footsteps as I approach, getting close enough to see her punch a code into a keypad before a gate swings inward.
As she enters through the wrought iron gate, I keep quiet and slip through before it can close all the way behind her. It’s slow and probably programmed to wait until a car can drive through before it begins to shut, so there’s more than enough time for me to gain entrance.
The lights are off in the giant three-story brick colonial on the property. It has elaborate cream trim, a four-tiered walkway lined with neatly trimmed bushes, and bunches of bright flowers leading from the driveway to a red door with decorative glass panes. Trees line the edge of the driveway that wraps around the side to the back of the house, obscuring the view from neighbors.
Whose home are we at, baby girl ?
Carmela walks up the side of the house, gazing up at a balcony leading to French doors on the second level as she removes her hat and tousles her hair with a sigh. Everything about her posture is relaxed like she’s been to this house a million times. Even though I have no idea where we are, it gives me a sense of calm when my instincts should be on high alert.
“Four more years,” she mutters, barely loud enough for me to hear.
As I mull over whatever that’s supposed to mean, I wait until she disappears around the corner, silently creeping along the side of the house. I hear her fiddling with keys, quietly whispering to herself until she succeeds in opening the door. It closes behind her, and I listen for the sound of a lock sliding back into place but don’t hear one.
Peering around the corner, I see a dim light come to life just inside. The back of the house faces a courtyard with a pool and a three-car garage.
A sharp yelp comes from within the house, startling me. My reflexes snap into action as I pull my 9mm Smith and Wesson M&P from the holster on my belt. Ever since Carmela got attacked, I’ve kept it on me. Approaching the door, I hold my weapon up, peering through the glass as I open it slowly, trying not to alert anyone of my presence.
Carmela starts screeching at the top of her lungs, the sound causing my heart to fall into my stomach as I make my way further into the house. Another set of cries joins hers, along with what sounds like a pot or pan being banged around. I follow the noise, whipping around the corner with my gun pointed at the source.
“Drop your weapon!” I shout, only to realize it’s Carmela who’s banging the pot around as she screams at the floor.
She jumps at the sound of my voice, throwing the pot in my direction. It narrowly misses my head as I watch it fly by in surprise. When I face her again, holding my hands up to show her I mean no harm, she’s pointing a Glock 42 at me.
Where the fuck did that come from?
“Anders?” she cries out in disbelief.
“Mom!” A girl bounces around the corner behind her, eyes widening at the sight of me. She’s a carbon copy of Carmela, only with piercing light green eyes. “Why do you have a gun?” she cries out, head ping-ponging between us, trying to assess whether I’m a threat or not.
Carmela stares at me guiltily as she lowers her arms. A tight ball of dread goes off in my chest like a bomb. “ Mom ?”