Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
SOFIA
I don’t know what to do.
It feels as if my brain is split in two.
Half—the angry, hurting, disappointed half—urges me to go. Not just out of Nico’s condo, but this fancy building where I don’t fit in. Out of the Upper West Side, out of Manhattan, out of this city that’s brought me nothing but fear and heartbreak.
But the other half…
That half has me frozen in indecision.
I want to go. But I’m scared to leave, too.
I wasn’t scared sneaking out of Nico’s condo. Or stomping down the five flights of stairs rather than wait for the elevator. As I stormed across the lobby, my mind one-hundred percent set on leaving, my anger was all I could think about.
Why did you ever think, even for a second, that he would believe you, my inner voice of logic reprimanded. How did you ever think living with Nico could work?
Did I think he would believe me? Not really.
Not when it’s my word against his father’s. And I get it. I don’t like it, hate it, really, but I get it. If the positions were reversed and my mom came to me with a story of Nico doing something terrible, I might have believed her, too.
Still. It hurts. A lot.
Just being around Nico was hard enough. But to hear him call me a liar to my face, to double down on those horrible accusations—I couldn’t take it.
I’ll take my chances out on my own, I told myself while I shoved my things into my sad little suitcase. A suitcase dinged and worn and undoubtedly nothing like the expensive luggage I’m sure Nico takes on his trips. I’ve been handling things by myself for years, I fumed. I don’t need Nico’s help.
In theory, it made sense.
But when I reached the entrance to the building and I saw the darkened street just beyond, I froze.
The anger dissolved.
And in its place, fear surged.
No, not just fear. Terror.
I stood there, my hand on the door handle, unable to move.
My pulse started racing. Cold sweat broke out all across my body. My chest went tight and my head went all swimmy. I could feel a panic attack nudging at me, only seconds away.
Go, the logical voice insisted. Get a cab, have it take you to the train station, the airport, a hotel, anywhere but here. You’re smart. You’re a PI. Of all people, you should know how to hide.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t make myself open the door. All I could do was stand there, gripped with fear, hating myself for my cowardice.
I’ve never felt that stuck before. Like someone else had taken over my body. Like no matter what I told my muscles to do, they wouldn’t obey.
I’m not sure how long I stood there before I finally gave up.
As soon as I informed my body it wasn’t going outside, my muscles unlocked. And like a drunken puppet with half its strings cut, I lurched away from the door and over to the little sitting area in the corner of the lobby, where I’ve been ever since.
I can feel the guy behind the reception desk watching me, but I’ve been intentionally avoiding his gaze. Instead, I’ve been studying the painting on the wall across from me, staring at it for so long the colors blur and the figures turn into amorphous blobs.
Maybe he’ll think I’m an art enthusiast, I reason. He won’t think I’m a would-be thief plotting my next heist. He’ll just think I really, really like this painting of a couple walking side by side in the rain.
I don’t. Honestly, it just makes me sad.
And I keep wondering why the artist didn’t give the couple an umbrella.
Was it a metaphor? Did the artist want to send a message that even when you’re in a relationship, you’re not fully protected?
Or that when you’re in love, the metaphorical rain doesn’t bother you?
I sigh at the painting. Am I seriously analyzing the symbolism of it when I have much bigger concerns to worry about? Like where I’m going to go if I ever gather up the courage to actually leave?
That’s a great question, and one I don’t have the answer to yet.
My apartment in Hoboken is out. So is Brian’s place in Florida and my aunt’s in Arizona. Yes, I know they’re both thousands of miles from here and the chances of someone following me there are slim.
But not impossible. And that’s enough to make up my mind.
So where does that leave me? Do I get a hotel somewhere in the city, maybe a rundown, pay-by-the-hour place that takes cash and doesn’t require ID? And then spend the next however many days being terrified out of my mind every time someone walks by the door?
Do I head upstate, possibly to one of the tiny towns in the Adirondacks, hoping I can find a little rental cabin in the woods where no one will find me?
A shudder grabs hold of me at the thought of it—sitting alone in a cabin at night like I’m in the scene of a classic horror movie, the murderer sneaking undetected through the woods, moving closer and closer…
My pulse skitters. The bands wrapped around my chest wrenches tighter.
Okay. No cabin in the woods.
So where does that leave me?
Maybe I should try leaving again. Just… do it. Push the door open and hurry onto the sidewalk, take a cab to the bus station, pick the first available bus, and just go.
I rise halfway from my chair before my muscles lock up again.
Frustrated tears sting my eyes.
I’m mad at Nico. But I’m mad at myself, too.
What happened to the brave woman I’ve always believed myself to be? The woman who stakes out seedy hotels in the dark, who follows men suspected of insurance fraud, who does everything on her own and never gives it a second thought?
But I know what happened to her. She got lost somewhere between the alley and the hospital room, and I’m not sure how to find her again.
I hate feeling like this. Scared. Mad. Sad. Disappointed. And so mixed up inside, I’m not sure where to even start untangling this chaos of emotions.
From the reception desk, there’s a soft cough. A cough that clearly says, Ahem. Do you need any help? Or are you planning on sitting there all night?
Could I? Would they kick me out?
Will Nico come down here, looking for me, or is he relieved that I’m gone?
The man behind the desk coughs again.
My cheeks go hot as I stare hard so hard at the painting, it’s a miracle it doesn’t burst into flames.
What am I going to do? Where can I go?
Why won’t Nico believe me?
Why did I allow myself the tiniest hope that he would?
From across the lobby, a loud ding announces the arrival of one of the elevators.
A moment later, footsteps rush out. Not running, but not walking, either.
As the footsteps hurry across the lobby, a familiar voice asks urgently, “Edwin, have you seen a woman come through? Just in the last hour?”
Nico.
He came looking for me.
“Mr. Parisi,” the receptionist—concierge? security guard?—replies. “If you’re looking—”
“Sofia!”
I tear my attention away from the painting to see Nico jogging towards me. “Sofia!” His tone is rough. Urgent. Tinged with anger. “What were you thinking?”
Irritation flares. How dare he say that? When he called me a liar? When he accused me of using him? How dare he ask why I left?
Nico closes the distance between us in seconds. Once he’s beside my chair, he snaps, “Do you have any idea how much danger you could have put yourself in? And you just left? Without telling me where you were going? You didn’t even take the phone. If something happened to you—”
He stops.
His angry expression slips, exposing his fear. “Shit, Soph,” he adds more quietly. “I thought you were gone. And without the phone…”
Angry was easier to deal with. But seeing his fear, his worry…
My throat burns.
Hot tears trickle down my cheeks.
Staring at my lap, I whisper, “I couldn’t leave. I tried. But… I was too scared.”
“What?”
Lifting my chin, I force myself to look at him.
In a rush, I blurt, “I was too scared. I got to the door and I couldn’t move.
I literally couldn’t do it. I stood there like a coward for I don’t know how long, the guy over there probably thinks I’m crazy or that I’m staking out the place to steal something.
So I’ve just been looking at this dumb painting wondering why the artist didn’t give the couple an umbrella and feeling sad about it.
And I’m mad at you and I’m mad at myself and now I’m crying again and I haven’t cried in ages because it doesn’t fix things and I don’t know what to do. ”
In the aftermath of my outburst, my face flames with embarrassment. Why did I say all that? Why couldn’t I have just left already? Why am I such a mess right now?
Nico looks at me for a long moment. Then he kneels and puts his hand on my knee.
Despite my mixed-up feelings, my skin tingles where he touches me.
“Soph.” His voice gentles. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry you’re scared,” he replies. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to leave. I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”
The unexpected kindness makes my tears fall faster. Which in turn makes me feel worse, crying in front of Nico, in the lobby of his building, no less, where anyone can see me falling apart…
“Ah, Soph.” Nico leans forward and carefully wraps his arms around me. “Don’t cry. Please. Don’t cry.”
I don’t want to cry. But I can’t seem to stop.
“I don’t cry,” I mutter. “I hate crying. It doesn’t help.”
“It’s okay to cry sometimes,” he soothes. And then he strokes my hair.
It’s too much—Nico holding me, being so kind, touching my hair… I can’t stop the memories from flooding in. I can’t stop remembering the good times, when I really thought he loved me. When I thought we would spend our lives together.
Naive? Probably. But I believed it back then.
“Come back upstairs,” he says quietly. “Please. We can talk for real this time. I’ll listen instead of being a jerk and yelling at you. Or if you don’t want to talk, you can just stay in the bedroom. Just don’t leave.”