Chapter 12
SOFIA
I’m sitting in the library at the microfiche machine.
There are stacks of coaster-sized reels that are lined up on the right side of the machine, and a smaller stack of reels that I’ve already been through on the left.
The screen in front of me displays newspaper articles from forty years ago imprinted in black and dirty yellow.
I twist the knobs to move back and forth, zooming in to read some of the text before zooming out to skip to the next issue.
My phone rings. I’m not fast enough to get it, and the librarian gives me the stink eye.
I smile apologetically, rising from my seat so I can step outside the silent reading room.
In the library’s lobby, I’m free to take the call.
It’s Frankie, and even though we have nothing planned, I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him.
“Hey, Frankie?” I ask.
“Sofia,” he croaks. “Something’s happening to me.”
I almost think he’s talking about becoming a werewolf, or having some kind of alien in his stomach. There’s that level of panic in his voice. But I know that this is the real world, and whatever he’s going through can’t be all that bad.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I can’t…I can’t breathe,” he replies.
“Have you called 911?” I prompt.
“No,” he insists. “I can’t do that. I don’t…know…what…”
“Okay,” I decide, taking charge. “Where are you?”
“In…my…room,” he answers, gasping for air.
“Sit down,” I instruct. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“Is there anyone there with you?”
“No,” he says, on another gasp.
“Okay, close your eyes,” I suggest in a calm and soothing voice. “I want you to focus on the sound of my voice. Think about a time we were together. Maybe our date at the park. Think about the water running over the rocks in the stream and the sound of the birds in the trees.”
I hear him exhale, so I know that he’s concentrating.
“Think about the feel of the picnic blanket beneath our feet, and the taste of the lunch that you packed,” I continue. “Just inhale.” I can hear him following my instructions, so I wait a beat before speaking again. “Now exhale,” I command.
“My heart is beating too fast,” he whispers. I notice that he’s able to form a complete sentence now, which is a good start.
“I think you’re having a panic attack,” I explain.
There is a rush of air, and then a few seconds later, Frankie’s voice returns to a mostly solid form. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine and the next, I couldn’t feel my fingers.”
“I’m sure it was a panic attack. I’ve had them before,” I say. “Just concentrate on your breath. It will pass.”
I want to ask him a ton of questions, but I know I can’t do that over the phone. What brought on the panic attack, and did it have anything to do with his father? I’m dying to know, but I need to handle this responsibly.
“Do you want to meet up?” I ask, hoping that he will agree.
“Yes,” he exclaims, as if the invitation is exactly what he’s been waiting for.
“Okay, how about coffee at Brew Hut?” I suggest.
He inhales and exhales loudly. “I don’t like Brew Hut.”
“Okay, how about Cuppa Joe?” I offer.
“Let’s just do lunch,” he replies.
“You got it,” I agree. I don’t care where we go. I just want to meet him. This feels like a big deal, like something momentous happened and I need to know about it.
“Okay.” He sighs. “When?”
“As soon as you feel able,” I respond. “Maybe a half hour?”
“Okay,” he agrees.
There’s a pause before either of us hangs up, and in that moment, I can almost hear the unspoken words between us.
I’m eager to see him, but not because I’m in love with him.
I suspect he knows something more than he did an hour ago, something that caused the overwhelming emotions he can’t cope with.
But just because he has information that I need doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to him.
In fact, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m a little worried.
I have no idea how the Corello family organization is structured.
Obviously, Francisco Corello is at the top, and I have an inkling about some other members.
But I don’t know how deeply invested Frankie is.
His panic attack has given me pause. I’m sure that’s not what happens to a cold-blooded killer. If Frankie had that kind of reaction to something he saw or overheard in his home, then shouldn’t that mean he is innocent? And if he is innocent, then maybe we have a shot at a real future.
“See you soon,” I say quickly, before I can let something slip.
“See you,” he responds, hanging up the phone.
I exhale, glancing over at the circulation desk. The librarian in charge is trying not to stare at me, even though I’m clearly talking someone off the ledge. I give her a tight smile, walking back to the reading room to clean up my stuff.
My heart is pounding. I’m pumped full of adrenaline at the prospect of learning about Corello’s operation.
And there’s even a significant part of me that’s looking forward to seeing Frankie again, apart from my secret mission.
I actually like him, and the sudden opportunity to view him as something other than a participant in my brother’s murder has me elated.
I text him the address of a diner halfway between our two homes.
It will take me about ten minutes to get there as soon as I get in the car, and I don’t want him to worry about picking a place.
The diner isn’t one business I’ve located as being associated with organized crime.
I hope that makes it a safe place to talk, but I will share my story anyway.
I had a lot of panic attacks after Danny died.
Sometimes they would come on me out of the blue, forcing me to abandon whatever plans I had for that day.
Investigating Francisco Corello has helped somewhat, but there are still times when I feel out of control.
I won’t mention that to Frankie, of course.
I’ll just say that I empathize without going into the specifics.
But I’m confident that I’ll be able to learn a lot now that we’re past the introductory stage and theoretically dating.
I change my clothes and grab my keys, hurrying out the door.
I hop into my car and drive to the diner, forcing myself to slow down for red lights.
I’m excited, anxious, and nervous all at the same time.
It’s a toxic combination that doesn’t lend itself well to driving.
I pull into the diner parking lot and shut the engine off.
It’s game time. I have to pretend that I don’t know anything about his family or their business.
I have to hold his hand while simultaneously pumping him for information.
There isn’t a school in the world that will teach these kinds of skills, so I’m on my own.
I check my phone just to make sure that no one from the newspaper has texted me.
I consider letting Mr. Harlan know what’s going on but decide against it.
I’ll brief him when I’m through. Mario the photographer won’t be of much help here either.
I need Frankie to trust me, and that trust would only be eroded if I gave away his secret too quickly.
I square my shoulders and walk into the restaurant. I’m early, so I take a seat near a window. I try to choose one that has the most privacy, far away from the counter where regulars sit to drink coffee.
“I’ll be right there!” a waitress calls out.
“Take your time,” I say.
I slide into the booth and reach for the menus that are stuck between the ketchup bottle and the napkin dispenser. They’re laminated but sticky. I set one on the table in front of me and look at the offerings. I’m not hungry, but I know I have to order something, so we don’t attract attention.
The waitress comes over and pours me a glass of water.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” I say.
“Alright,” she says, pouring a second glass and leaving it on the table. She walks away and I stare at the door, waiting for Frankie to arrive.
A moment later, he walks in, looking pale. He scans the room before locating me, hurrying over to take a seat. I’m not sure what I expected, but he looks okay. He clearly looks a little frazzled, but not to the point where he’s shaking or crying. That seems like a good start.
I stand up, pulling him into a hug. This kind of thing is delicate. I put myself in a friend’s shoes. If I were having a panic attack, what would I want someone to do? I’m going to take it slow and make sure he’s comfortable before asking questions.
He hugs me back, tucking his face into the crook of my neck. That’s a little bit more intimate than I’m ready for, but I let it slide. Now is not the time to put distance between us, and I know that he’s not trying to be aggressive.
We separate after a moment and take our seats across from one another. The waitress comes back, clearly expecting us to be ready with our order.
“Can you give us a minute, please?” Frankie asks.
“Sure,” she quips, walking away again.
“Is this place okay?” I ask Frankie. “We could go somewhere else if you like.”
“This is fine,” he says.
“Have you ever been here?” I wonder, trying to discover if it’s safe to talk.
“No,” he answers.
“Good,” I say. When he looks at me suspiciously, I rush to explain. “Doing something new helps after a panic attack.”
Frankie nods, either believing my lie or not caring enough to argue. He takes a sip of water and then looks at me imploringly. “Thank you for meeting me. I don’t know what happened.”
“It feels like a heart attack, right?” I begin.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“I had them too, when my brother died,” I say, leaving room for him to tell me what went wrong.
“I guess it was the…studying for the bar exam,” he manages.
“Sure,” I respond, accepting what I’m sure is a cover-up. When I met him, he was studying for the bar exam. There is no way that’s what triggered the attack.
“I guess I’ve been so caught up in the repercussions of whether I would pass or not,” he continues.
“Well,” I say, turning my attention to the menu, “let’s just take a break from studying and have some lunch.”
He laughs quietly. “That sounds nice.”
The waitress comes back, and we place our order.
The whole time, I’m trying to think of ways to help him come clean.
If my suspicions are correct, Frankie has seen or heard something traumatic.
That something could be the key to my investigation and might help me finish my article in record time.
But I can’t look like I’m too eager to hear the real story.
He just picks at his food. I abandon mine halfway through, sensing that it’s not the time to really dig in. We take our leftovers to go and sit for long moments afterward, neither of us ready to leave.
“Do you want to come to my place and watch a movie?” I ask.
This is risky. I remember that I lied to him about where I live and I’ll have to explain that.
I also wonder if it’s smart to reveal my true location.
But I’m ninety percent sure that Frankie isn’t dangerous.
No hardened criminal would act the way he is.
I take a chance, following my heart. It might not be smart, but it feels right.
“Yes,” he answers definitively.
“I have something to confess,” I say as we walk out the door.
“Which is?” he wonders.
The sunlight feels good on my face. I know that he’s just been through a serious scare, but I’m feeling more lighthearted than usual.
Just the thought that the man I’ve been seeing might not be directly involved in any violent activities cheers me up.
I’m just as determined to bring down Francisco Corello, but his son Frankie is another story.
I’ve grown to like the man, and I’m happy to think he’s not responsible for what happened to my brother.
“You know the place where you picked me up last time?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says suspiciously.
“That’s not really where I live,” I admit.
“So, you lied?” he accuses me, a smile tempering his accusation.
“Yes,” I own up to it. “I lied. But in my defense, I didn’t really know you.”
“And now?” he wonders.
“Now I feel like I have a better understanding of what makes you tick,” I reply.
He nods, letting my words sink in. We don’t hug or kiss; we don’t say anything to each other, simply walk back to our own cars and get behind the wheel.
I’m going to show him the way to my apartment old school style.
Instead of texting him the address or allowing him to locate it on his GPS, he’s just going to drive behind me.
If he thinks this is weird, he doesn’t say so. My guess is that his father is equally cautious, and it doesn’t occur to Frankie to think that anything is amiss. I hope he’ll buy that same rationale when it comes to my apartment. Because the last thing I want to do is tell him exactly why I lied.