Chapter Twenty-Three
Jules is outside the club now. Gabe stands protectively near her and the French girl.
The cool air fills Jules’s lungs, the adrenaline amping her up.
Her hand is throbbing—who knew punching someone would hurt so much?
—but she feels alive. Like she used to. The power she felt punching that asshole—that rapist.
Gabe hails a cab for the French model, her name is Colette. She doesn’t want to involve the police and risk damaging her career. Jules considers trying to convince her to report what happened, but realizes what a hypocrite she is for even having the thought.
When the cab takes off, Gabe looks at her, a curious expression on his face.
“What?” she asks.
He considers her a moment longer. “I just want to take in the girl who punched Alastair Fucking Essex in the face.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Hey, are you hungry?” Gabe asks.
“Always.”
“Follow me.”
It’s late and she’s starting to question her judgment following this giant man toward a nondescript building in the Isola district. The night is crisp and uncharacteristically quiet. Milan is normally a maelstrom of noise—sirens and mopeds and car horns and people shouting from windows.
Gabe opens the door for her, and inside she’s surprised to find a small counter where people are sitting eating tacos.
Tacos! It’s been one of her complaints about Italy—the Italians love their own food but seemingly little else.
What she wouldn’t give for reminders of home.
Taco Bell, Pizza Hut. She’s such an American.
But this place is even better. An authentic taqueria.
Gabe says something in Italian to a large man in the back of the small eatery, presumably asking how long until they can get a spot at the crowded counter.
The man nods, then opens a door behind him.
Gabe gestures for her to come. Jules is uncertain, but through the door the place opens up into a massive room. Elegant decor, a large bar, people drinking cocktails and eating the same tacos served at the grimy counter in the front of the place. A speakeasy.
“You like?” Gabe says ten minutes later as Jules bites into a taco, takes a big drink of her margarita.
“No, me love.”
Gabe smiles, pleased with himself.
This shitty day has taken a turn. The agency wouldn’t approve of the tacos, but fuck them. She may not have a career left anyway after punching the photographer. So she decides she’s going to take the win, eat tacos, drink margs without guilt.
She raises her glass to Gabe’s and he clinks it.
“May the first. Happy Death Day,” she says.
“Pardon?” Gabe shakes his head confused.
“Never mind.”
Back at Hotel Go-See, she stumbles to her room. Gabe escorted her home, a perfect gentleman. She drank too much, as always, but tonight that’s just fine. The other girls are sauntering in from their nights out.
She heads to her room. Genevieve still isn’t back—probably spending the night with the old guy from the club. There’s a piece of paper on her bed. She reads the note:
FBI agent called from America. Call back no matter the time.
Jules’s heart plummets, her mind going to one place: Clare. May Day has taken her sister, as she feared. She examines the phone number, which has a 312 area code. Where’s that? She grabs a handful of coins they keep in a jar and races to the pay phone in the hallway.
She shoves the coins into the slot and frantically dials the number.
A man’s voice, deep and authoritative, answers the line. She introduces herself, says she’s returning the call.
“Thank you for calling back, Ms. Delaney. I hoped you might speak with me about the May Day Killer.”
Jules’s throat tightens, her breaths come out in rasps.
“Clare,” she says, breathless. “My sister, is she okay?”
“I’m not calling about your sister, Ms. Delaney.”
Jules’s thoughts are swirling.
“We know you wrote the anonymous letter. Know you’re what he called one of the Lucky Ones. And we need your help.”