Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Luca
Gemma stands across the counter from me, her hand is warm in mine. She pulls it back, tucks it against her stomach like she's not sure what to do with it now.
"Is there a possibility," she says, and stops. Starts again. "Do you have slippers? Anything. My feet are—" She glances down at them, then back at me. "I stepped in something in the parking lot. I don't know what. I'd like to wash them, if I can use your bathroom."
Her feet are bare and dirty, the soles black from asphalt and whatever else she walked through getting here. She's been standing on them this whole time without saying anything.
"I don't have slippers," I say. "I'll get you socks. That work?"
She nods once. Quick. Like she's already calculated what asking cost her and decided it was worth it.
"Bathroom's through there." I point to the door past the kitchen. "Towels under the sink."
"Thank you."
She doesn't move. Waits for me to go first.
I turn toward the bedroom. The door is still open from when she put the kid down, and I can see the edge of the bed from here, the shape under the blanket.
I stop at the threshold.
The kid is curled on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, the other stretched toward the empty pillow beside her. Waiting for her mother even in sleep.
Gemma is watching me from the hallway. She's moved closer, positioned herself where she can see into the room, see her daughter, see me. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her weight is on the balls of her feet, ready to move if she needs to.
She doesn't trust me.
Good.
I hold out the socks. She takes them without touching my fingers, the same way she handed me the keys in the car.
"Thank you," she says again.
I step past her into the main room.
She hesitates. I can feel her behind me, deciding. After a moment her footsteps move toward the bathroom, and the door clicks shut.
I stand in my kitchen and listen to the water run.
The gun from the motel is still in my waistband, pressing against my spine. I take it out and set it on the counter, then think better of it and move it to the top of the refrigerator where the kid can't reach.
Gemma
The bathroom is small and clean.
Thank God.
I turn on the tap and wait for the water to warm. It doesn't. I wash my feet anyway, standing on one leg like a flamingo, scrubbing the grit and whatever I stepped in off my skin. The cold makes my toes ache. I switch feet, grip the edge of the sink, and think about nothing except getting clean.
My face next. I cup water in my palms and press it to my cheeks, my forehead, the back of my neck. I dry my face on the towel and think that they won't find me here.
The thought settles in my gut. The man at the motel — whoever sent him — they tracked me through the phone. I left that phone there.
No phone. No address. No trail.
For the first time since I saw that sedan behind the diner, my shoulders drop an inch.
But the relief doesn't last. It can't. Because tomorrow I'll still have no money, no job, no place to go.
I need to get to Wisconsin.
My parents and their house with the garden out back. That house has the spare room where my old bed is in it.
Mom's been asking me to visit for months, and I've been making excuses.
Lies stacked on lies because I couldn't let them see what Dominik left behind.
Couldn't let them know their daughter married a man who smiled at Sunday dinners and borrowed money from people who send other people to collect with guns.
But now there's no other option.
I can't go back to my apartment. If he found the motel through the phone, he probably already has my home address too. Everything I own is in that apartment and I can't touch any of it.
I pull the socks up higher on my calves and open the bathroom door.
Luca is on the couch. He's brought a pillow and a blanket from somewhere, set them on the cushion beside him. His eyes find me the second I step into the room, and he doesn't look away.
"We need to talk." His voice is low. Not a question. "Now."
I nod.
The couch is the only real seating in the room. He's at one end, the pillow and blanket at the other. I could sit there. It would be the normal thing to do.
I walk past it and pull a stool from under the kitchen counter instead. The legs scrape against the floor, too loud in the quiet. I sit across from him.
I fold my hands in my lap and wait.
"The man at the motel," he says. "Who the fuck was he?"
"I don't know."
Luca's jaw tightens. "You don't know."
"I don't know his name. I don't know who he works for. I've never seen him before tonight." I set the glass down. "But I know why he was there."
"Then tell me why."
I take a breath. Let it out slow. There's no reason to lie to this man. He already knows I'm in trouble. He already knows someone is after me. The only thing left is the why of it, and the why is simple enough.
"My husband died eighteen months ago," I say. "Robbery. I identified the body. Signed the paperwork. Buried him."
Luca's expression doesn't change, but his eyes sharpen. He's listening.
"His name was Dominik. Dominik Voss." I wait to see if the name means anything to him. It doesn't seem to. "He was... he had debts. A lot of them. To people I never met, for things I never knew about. And when he died, those debts didn't go away."
"They came to you."
"They came to me." I wrap my arms around myself. The apartment is warm enough, but I'm cold anyway. "At first it was just phone calls. Then men showing up at my door asking questions. Asking where the money was. Asking what Dominik had told me."
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth. That I didn't know anything. That Dominik never talked to me about his business. That I had no money and nothing to give them."
Luca's mouth twists. "And they didn't believe you."
"Would you?"
He doesn't answer. Which is answer enough.
"So I ran," I say. "Took Nina and left. New city, new name on the lease, cash jobs, no trail. I thought I was careful. I thought I'd gotten away." I let out a short, bitter laugh. "I was wrong."
"The phone," Luca says.
I nod. "Dominik gave it to me. Years ago. I should have thrown it away, but I couldn't—" I stop. Swallow. "Stupid. I know it was stupid."
"How much does he owe?"
"I don't know."
"Guess."
"I can't. I never knew what he was into. I never knew who he worked with. I just know it was enough that they're still looking for me eighteen months later, so it's not pocket change."
Luca is quiet for a long moment. His eyes move over my face like he's reading something written there.
"What did your husband do?" he asks. "For work."
"He was a consultant. Import-export, logistics, that kind of thing." The words taste like ash in my mouth.