Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“You’re very sweet, dear.”
I don’t know exactly how to help, though. He’s a big man, as tall as Giovanni, at least he was once, but he’s more stooped now. He’s not as muscular. That’s probably due to him sitting in a wheelchair most of the day, but he’s still very strong. With his cane in one hand, he wraps his other arm around my waist. It’s strange, but I feel rude to pull away. We walk together to the sofa, and I help him sit down.
“Would you like something to drink?” I don’t know how I’m being so cordial. Alarm bells are ringing in my head, both for myself and for him. Giovanni’s words keep repeating on the heels of those warnings.
“If you have some whiskey, I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Of course, I’ll be right back.” I slip away, grateful for the few moments I’ll have. I’m unsure what to do. If I should call Giovanni. If I should call security. But I do none of those things. Instead I pour him a whiskey and return to the office. He doesn’t see me come back right away, and I have a moment to study him. His expression is fixed and hard and different than it was when we were talking or when Lori was there. Different even than it was at the church. Like those faces are the ones he puts on when someone is watching.
An instant later, he shifts his gaze to mine, and I wonder if I am naive. If he knew I was there all along. But I school my features into a smile. He’s not dangerous, I tell myself. He is just an old man. He won’t hurt me. Why would he?
I go to him. “Here you are,” I say, taking the seat across from him.
“Thank you, dear.” He takes a long sip and nods in satisfaction.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Santa Maria?”
“Well, it’s more what I can do for you,” he says. I’m about to ask what he means when I hear the swoosh of the door to the sales office open. I turn to find a man walking inside. Immediately, I’m on my feet, my mouth opening to say something, my heart pounding.
“It’s all right, dear,” the old man says, and I realize I’ve backed up to where I’m close enough that he can touch me. His old, cold hand is on my hand. “He won’t hurt you.”
“What is this about?” I recognize this man. He’s the one with whom Giovanni had words in the parking lot.
“Sit down,” Mr. Santa Maria says to me. It’s not a request. In fact, there’s a hardness in his tone.
I look from the old man to the other one, the very capable one.
“Robert, don’t stand there scaring the girl. Go get her a drink,” he snaps. If I had any doubt that he wasn’t a very capable man, it’s now wiped away. He is in charge. In command. The old man facade, it’s just that, a facade.
He pats my hand, and I turn to look at him. He smiles, gestures for me to sit beside him.
I do because I don’t know what else to do.
“What do you want?” I ask him. Where is Giovanni? Where’s the guard Giovanni placed in the lobby?
Robert comes back from the same place I’d just been and hands me a whiskey. I take it, drink a sip.
“That’s a good girl.”
“What do you want?” I ask again, my voice more forceful.
“Honestly, I just wanted to see you,” he says, cocking his head to the side, studying me. “Because when I heard about you, I couldn’t really believe it. You do remind me so of Angelica. I wonder what my son thinks he’s doing with you. Reliving the past, perhaps?”
I don’t know why that bothers me. Maybe because it’s been on the back of my mind too?
“Oh, that letter I sent. Here,” he reaches into his pocket, takes out a crumpled note.
I take it, open it, read the contents.
Dearest Emilia,
Ghosts we think we killed and buried always lurk nearby, ready to snatch us back in time. Ready to smother us in darkness.
Do not trust my son. He will hurt you like he hurt her.
Be safe.
Your friend,
A.
“I don’t understand.”
“Robert,” Mr. Santa Maria says.
Robert walks to the empty wheelchair, and I realize there’s a bag hanging from the back of it. He unzips it and takes out a large, heavy book. From here I can see it’s hand bound.
Mr. Santa Maria takes the book from Robert. I see that both front and back covers are made of carved wood. He takes a quiet minute to look at it, traces the intricate pattern of the carving, then looks up at me. He holds it out.
“I wanted to give this to you. I think you should see it for yourself, because I am quite certain my son has not been fully forthcoming.”