Chapter 4
Chapter Four
NICO
I shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving her there.
Like she said, she can handle things herself.
She’s thirty-five-years-old, after all. No doubt, a capable woman.
That was the Sofia I knew, so independent, so driven to make a success of herself.
That was something we had in common: that ambition that had us studying late into the night together and spending hours upon hours researching the best colleges and their admission requirements.
And it’s not as if she was happy to see me. She couldn’t have made that more clear.
Although, was I expecting her to greet me with a smile after she’d just been attacked? When she was in pain? When she couldn’t even remember what happened?
Shit.
What are the odds?
Sofia comes to my condo, wanting to talk for the first time in eighteen years, and now she can’t remember why?
My hands still mid-lather, and a rivulet of soapy water runs straight into my eye.
“Shit,” I mutter, and step back under the water, lifting my face towards the shower head to rinse it out.
Could she be lying about the amnesia?
But why? What would it accomplish?
Unless she’s involved in some sort of criminal activity, and that’s why she was attacked? A drug deal gone bad, a late payment to a loan shark, maybe she was supposed to meet someone to exchange stolen goods and the other person attacked her and took off with everything?
I suppose that could be a reason for lying about her memory.
But she didn’t seem like she was lying.
Giving myself a final rinse, I turn off the water and step out of the shower, then grab a towel and quickly dry myself off. I quickly refold the towel and hang it neatly on the rack before heading over to the counter. As I run a comb through my hair, I spin the idea through my head.
Could she be lying?
It wouldn’t be the first time.
But her surprise when she saw me seemed genuine. So did the frustration that pinked up her cheeks and made her eyes flash with anger.
And if she wanted to cover her real reason for being there, she could have easily made up a story about a mugger attacking her. She didn’t need to say she had amnesia.
After a few runs of the comb, I peer into the mirror, giving myself a quick once-over.
I’ll need to shave in the morning, I decide, since my five o’clock shadow is now more like ten. And maybe I should call to schedule a haircut for this weekend.
But aside from that, I look the same as usual. Which feels odd, since I feel so unsettled and off-balance inside.
What did Sofia think of how I look?
Was she surprised? I’m a lot bigger than I was back in high school. And a couple of inches taller, thanks to a late growth spurt that hit when I was twenty.
Then again, does it matter if she was surprised by my appearance?
Does it matter that she still has the same shiny black hair and expressive hazel eyes and that cute upturned nose with a small spray of freckles across it?
Does it matter that her body—what I could see of it, at least—was just how I remember, with slender limbs and gentle curves and a petiteness that belies the size of her personality?
No. It doesn’t.
I head into the bedroom and over to the dresser, then take out a pair of briefs and a T-shirt and pull them on. Just as I’m reaching for my sweats, my normal hanging around the house attire, I stop.
The same thought that occurred to me earlier returns, this time with a sharp punch to my gut.
What if one of the men who attacked her comes back?
She wouldn’t even know he was a threat. She could be headed home after leaving the hospital and he could be right there, lying in wait. Lurking outside her house? apartment? condo? just waiting for the perfect opportunity to finish the job.
Where does she live? I wonder. In the city? In one of the suburbs? Or does she live further away, and made the trip back to New York specifically to see me?
And what of the attackers? Two of them, according to the police report I read while waiting to see Sofia. Two men, both wearing dark clothing and full-face masks, who dragged her into an alley just a block from my building and brutally attacked her.
Fuck.
My fist lands on the top of the dresser with a heavy thud.
Now that the image is in my head, I can’t get rid of it.
Two masked men, hitting Sofia, grabbing at her, slamming her roughly onto the ground. Maybe kicking her. Pulling at her clothes. I know they didn’t rape her, based on the medical records I hacked into the hospital servers to access. But did they try?
Sofia’s beautiful. She was when she was seventeen, and she still is now. Those assholes could have touched her, threatened to violate her…
Fuck.
Pain shoots through my jaw.
Anger bubbles up.
Like I said to Sofia in the hospital, I would never, ever wish her harm.
But someone hurt her.
Not someone. Someones. And they’re still out there.
Or are they? Could the police have identified them from a nearby security camera, and maybe the assholes are in custody?
Bypassing the sweatpants, I head over to my bed and scoop up my laptop from where I left it. I take it over to the desk by the window and flip the laptop open, then sit down and start typing.
My fingers fly over the keys as I hack back into the police servers. It’s absolutely illegal, what I’m doing, but I don’t feel a hint of guilt about it. This kind of hacking is known as gray-hat hacking—not legal, but not done with the intent to harm.
I don’t hack into databases like this for Fox & Falcon business, not because I couldn’t, but because I don’t want to risk the company being tied to any illegal activity.
But on my own, working on my personal laptop with layers of security and routed through a series of VPNs? That, I won’t hesitate to do.
After a few minutes of searching, I discover that the men who attacked Sofia are still out there.
And aside from some vague eyewitness statements that basically all say the same thing—two men of average height, wearing masks, with no identifying details—it doesn’t appear that the police have any leads.
Well, shit.
That’s not good.
Since I’m already on my laptop, I give in to the curiosity I’ve successfully ignored all the times I’ve wondered about Sofia before.
In the past, when I’ve thought about what Sofia might be doing, I’ve sternly reminded myself that it’s not my business anymore.
That there’s no good to be found by dredging up the past.
But tonight, after everything that happened, I want to know.
A few minutes later, I have my answers.
Sofia lives in a one-bedroom apartment in Hoboken, maybe a forty-five minute train ride from here.
Two years ago, she took over ownership of A-1 Investigations, a small PI firm in Jersey City, and has been running it all on her own since then.
She’s single, never married, and according to the rental documents from the leasing office, she doesn’t have any pets.
A little more searching tells me her mom lived in Queens up until five years ago, when she passed away unexpectedly from a massive aneurysm. Now Sofia’s closest family is her aunt, who lives all the way across the country in Arizona.
Is she all alone, then?
Does she have any friends to come stay with her in the hospital?
Or is she lying awake in her darkened hospital room, jolting at unfamiliar noises and imagining monsters emerging from shadows?
I close the laptop harder than I intended to and stand back up.
I shouldn’t care. But shit, I do.
I don’t like the idea of her alone and scared.
I don’t like knowing that the men who hurt her are still out there.
I don’t like the feelings that seeing her again roiled up inside me.
Crossing the room to the nightstand, I snatch my phone from the charger. After a quick search, I locate the number for Sofia’s floor at the hospital and call it.
The woman who answers sounds like the same one I told about Sofia needing more pain medication. And when I tell her that I was just there visiting Sofia, not an hour before, she replies cheerfully, “Oh, yes. I remember you. Did you need something?”
“I was wondering if anyone else came to visit Sofia,” I say. “Or if the police sent anyone to stay with her.”
There’s a brief pause. “No visitors aside from you. And no police.” Then another pause. “Do you think it might be dangerous, having her here?”
Dangerous to the nurse? Probably not. But to Sofia? Possibly.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I lie. “I was just wondering.”
“Well, she seems okay,” the nurse says. “I can’t give out medical information, obviously, but I can tell you I just checked on her. She’s finally sleeping, poor thing.”
“Poor thing?”
“Well, after everything that happened to her, of course. And I think she was upset when you left.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “Upset?”
“Yeah.” Sympathy softens her voice. “She was crying after you left.” For a moment, silence hangs. “Shoot. Can you forget I said that?”
My molars flare with pain. “Yes,” I reply through a gritted jaw. “Absolutely.”
But I can’t forget about it.
Sofia was crying?
She never used to cry.
She worried it would make her look weak. That it would make her overworked mom worry. She insisted that if she wanted to be a successful FBI agent, which was her dream career, she needed to be able to hide her emotions, so she wouldn’t get upset by some of the terrible crimes she’d inevitably see.
Why was Sofia crying? Because she was in pain? Or because of me?
“How late are your visiting hours?” I ask.
“You can come any time,” the nurse replies. “The hospital shifted over to twenty-four-hour availability for visitors recently. You’ll have to be extra quiet, given how late it is, but she’s still alone in her room, so that’ll help.”
Glancing at the time, I realize it’s already close to one AM. Not a normal visiting time by any means. Practicality tells me I should just go to bed. And if I’m still worried about Sofia by tomorrow morning, I can swing by to see her on my way to work.
But my body doesn’t seem to agree.