Chapter 8
Prison taught me many life lessons, one of which is that every second counts when you’re faced with a threat.
It will take me approximately six seconds to reach my gun in my bedroom safe, then another two to three seconds to unlock the lockbox and retrieve my gun.
I don’t account for the time it will take to find and engage the intruder, but I do know only one second is needed to shoot and kill.
I plan all of this before I even step foot over the threshold into my home.
A kitchen light illuminates the hallway, but not much else. The first floor is loaded with a concerning silence, and I wonder if Zoomie is okay. My shoe scuffs the floor in an audible squeak. I stop and observe, my muscles tightly coiled. After a moment, I don’t think anyone heard.
The staircase is only a couple more feet away.
I’m about to rush upstairs when I realize my mistake.
I can’t shoot my intruder, even if I wanted to.
As a convicted felon, I’m not allowed to have my unregistered gun.
Any blood on my hands would mean another prison sentence.
Most likely for life this time. Judges aren’t as gracious the second time around.
Instead I head to the kitchen, drawn by an invisible thread.
The knife block sits on the counter. I won’t use it unless in self-defense—the kind of indisputable self-defense that even the worst public defender could prove wasn’t my fault.
My palm hovers over the largest butcher knife with an ethereal memory of my husband’s death.
First the gunshot that threw his body backward, then his chest splitting open as his blood soaked the leaves in crimson.
But there’s no time for a trip down Memory Lane. Can I do whatever I need to this time? I guess we’ll find out.
My fingers close around the smooth handle holding eight inches of gleaming stainless steel.
The familiar weight of it settles in my palm.
I aim the blade out in front of me and step back into the hallway.
No one knows about the room behind the meticulously arranged book spines…
but Wren heard the thump. Had she returned to investigate while I was at Ivory’s house?
And if so, what now? I couldn’t kill her for uncovering my secret, and I don’t have the kind of cash to keep a podcasting blabbermouth like her quiet.
I inch towards the bookshelf and reach for the second shelf.
The dusty, leather-bound copy of Nancy Drew: The Secret of the Old Clock juts out barely enough for anyone but me to notice.
I tug the book. A soft click vibrates through the wall.
The heavy bookshelf groans as it begins to shift, revealing a dark seam of empty space behind it.
Then—
Movement. Behind me.
I spin around, knife raised, the polished metal glinting faintly in the dim light.
I’m pretty sure I’m on the verge of a heart attack when I see a large dark lump bulging up from the sofa.
It’s not Fred here to confront me about what I saw.
Nor is it Wren, with her calculating eyes and weaponized smile.
And unfortunately it’s not some random burglar here to rob me of my meager possessions.
It's someone I never in a million years would have expected to break into my house uninvited when I thought he was supposed to be in jail.
Sitting on my couch like he owns the place is my brother Luca.
And on his lap is Zoomie, his long tongue hanging sideways from his grinning snout and tummy turned up getting belly rubs.
Luca flashes a half-cocked grin that used to melt teachers and parole officers alike. It doesn’t work on me because I know better. “Hey, sis.”
“Hey, bro.” My voice is almost as sharp as the knife I’m holding. “What the heck did you do to my guard dog?” Zoomie is supposed to scare intruders away, not welcome them in for a massage. “And my front door!”
Luca shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I didn’t have a key.”
“So you broke down the damn door?”
“I figured it was better than a window. I’ll fix it, I promise.” Zoomie has better handyman skills than my brother and dogs don’t even have opposable thumbs.
I lift up the butcher knife. “I almost killed you!” My pulse is thudding, and my chest feels tight. The bookshelf is still slightly ajar, and I wonder if my brother noticed me opening it. I pretend to lean back to rest, clicking the door in place while masking it with a cough.
“Catching a cold, Gianna?”
“I go by Shari now, and it’s more of an incurable virus.” I glare at him and attempt to close the front door, but it won’t latch now. The frame’s split where he kicked it in. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought you were—”
“I know who you thought I was,” he cuts me off, guilt flashing across his face for half a second before he looks away. “Sorry about that. I didn’t have a choice, okay? I’m desperate and need a place to stay. Just for a few days.”
It’s at this point when I notice the massive duffel bag at his feet. I’m guessing there’s a month’s worth of clothes in there. This isn’t going to be a weekend visit. I cross my arms, waiting for a better explanation.
Luca doesn’t meet my eyes. Nudging Zoomie off his lap, he rises from the sofa and paces now, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
There’s something off about him—his movements too jerky, his breathing uneven.
He smells faintly of smoke and sweat and probably pot, though I’m such a goody-goody I wouldn’t know.
Well, I used to be one until my prison sentence.
“What’s actually going on?” I ask.
He stops pacing and hesitates before speaking. “Do you want the condensed version or extended cut?”
“Spare me the details. Give me the main bullet points.”
“I got kicked out of my apartment today.”
I don’t bother to ask why. Knowing my brother’s history, I could name any number of potential reasons. Not paying his bills. Drug use. Kidnapping. Theft. Assault. You name it, Luca’s done it. “I didn’t even know you were released from jail.”
“Yeah, I was only in for a month. No big deal. Free room and board, right?”
“And you didn’t think to call me to let me know you were out?”
“I lost your contact info after the last time we saw each other, so I had no way to find you.”
The last time I saw my brother was right after I got out of jail when he brought me a gift I would never forgive him for. It’s hard to believe it isn’t as burned into his memory as it is mine. But at least the good news is that I’m not as easy to find as I thought.
“So then how’d you find me?”
“Mamma,” he answers vaguely.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since my trial four years ago.
She didn’t once visit, call, or write back.
After I was released, I made sure to write her with my latest address and phone number, but she never put them to use.
It was hard enough losing Stewart and my freedom, but to then lose my mamma on top of it all…
It’s the reason I depend so much on Ivory’s friendship.
I literally have no one but her. And Luca, if I’m crazy enough to count him as dependable.
“So you’ve been out of jail? Keeping clean?”
“Actually, yeah. I’ve been doing really good. I moved here to Doomwood Falls after Mamma told me where you were, so I’ve been here for about a month. Got a job bartending down at Dirty Dan’s, and I even have a new girlfriend.”
The information overload slowly starts to process, and I’m left with a few concerns.
My brother has been living and working nearby for over a month without me knowing it.
With his drug habit I’m not sure bartending is the best choice of job, but at least he’s working instead of begging me for money.
I want to ask who the unlucky lady is, but it’s probably best I not know.
“Her name’s Freida Cobb,” he says as if reading my mind. “You might know her. She lives right across the street.”
The name hits me like a slap. “You mean my best friend Ivory’s daughter Freida?”
“Oh, so you do know her.”
Zoomie paces the back door whining like he needs to go out.
“You are absolutely not allowed to date Ivory’s daughter.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I walk into the kitchen and let Zoomie out back. “She’s still in high school.”
“She’s eighteen and legally an adult. And so am I. Which means we can do whatever we want.”
“You’re almost twice her age, Luca! And it’s not always about you—it’s about her. Do you really think you’re good for her? Because we both know you’ll end up ruining her life.”
He rakes a hand through his thick black waves that he’s grown out almost as long as mine. His olive complexion from our mamma’s side is a striking contrast against the green eyes that he inherited from our father.
“You think I don’t worry about that? It wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did. And I—” his voice catches, “I think I love her.”
What. The. Heck. I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s kidding. He’s not. What. The. Heck. I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s kidding. He’s not. The jade in his eyes brightens with a desperate wildness.
“Look, I won’t hurt her. But promise me this stays between us,” he says, almost a plea. “Her parents can’t find out. And definitely not Mamma. Nobody can.”
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. He’s my brother.
The only one who stood up for me when I couldn’t.
Like when our childhood neighbor would yell at me and steal my toys any time they landed in his yard.
One day Luca paid him a visit—in his typical calm, friendly way—and pointed to the guy’s bedroom window.
“I noticed you’ve been hoarding my sister’s stuff in your bedroom closet.
Don’t worry—I let myself in to get it last night.
” That day the yelling stopped. Years later, I understood that it wasn’t confidence, but it was practice… probably for the mafia.
“You swear on Dad’s grave you’re not going to do anything to ruin her life?” Even as I ask it I know it’s an impossible request.
“I’ll do you better. I swear on my own impending grave.”
“How about… Stew’s grave?”
His jaw drops at the sound of Stew’s name slipping from my mouth so easily. He knows I haven’t spoken it since the murder four years ago. I could never manage explain why speaking my husband’s name shredded me for all these years, but it did. Finally, though, the curse seems to be broken.
Luca hugs me warmly. “Does this mean you’re okay?”
I don’t know if he means okay with moving on after Stew’s death, or okay with him dating an adolescent, but I assume the latter.
“Yes, fine,” I agree. “I’ll keep your secret. And you can crash here, but only for a few days. And you’re fixing that door frame first thing tomorrow.” I know it’s silly of me to assume my version of tomorrow matches my brother’s.
Outside Zoomie runs the length of the fence, freaking out at something on the other side along the wood line. The spotlight doesn’t reach the woods, but whatever it is has Zoomie in an aggressive state I’ve never seen.
“Yeah, yeah,” Luca mutters, scooping up his duffel bag and heading for the stairwell.
“I mean it, Luca.” My voice softens. “You know why I can’t have a door that doesn’t lock.”
He pauses on the stairs. For a heartbeat, something like shame crosses his face. “I know, Gianna—I mean Shari. I’ll fix it.”
He starts up the steps, his boots thudding against the wood. When he hefts the duffel bag strap up to his shoulder, that’s when I see his knuckle, split and purple. Raw flesh stretches across the bones like he’s been in a boxing match. A queasiness fills my stomach.
“Luca?” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look back. “Yeah?”
“What happened to your hand?”
He hesitates at the top of the stairs. Then he says, “You don’t wanna know,” and disappears down the hall. The door to the guest room bangs shut behind him.
I stand in front of my wrecked doorjamb, the cold night air spilling into my house, and tell myself that letting Luca stay is the right thing to do. Outside Zoomie is still barking. Inside Luca’s boots stomp across the ceiling above me.
Staring at the splintered frame, I catch a faint smear of blood on the knob. Luca’s, I assume. Unless it’s not, in which case now I have something new to worry about: his boxing opponent coming back for round two.
And here I thought things couldn’t get any worse.