Page 113 of The Striker
“Has anything changed?” he asks. “Do you want to be with him now?”
Swallowing hard, I shake my head. “I’m not ready for that.” And after what happened yesterday, I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I thought what we were doing, that it was okay. It worked for both of us. But he lied to me. He went behind my back when he knew how I felt about him being involved. I don’t trust him. And I can’t be with someone I don’t trust.
“Then let him go, Cecilia.” Tears prick the backs of my eyes. “If you care about him at all, let him go.”
35CECILIA
Julio offers to drive me home and I let him, not waking Gabriel up before I go. A sliver of guilt worms its way into my chest, but it’s better this way, I think. I need to talk to my parents and I can’t do that with Gabriel there, hovering.
If I woke him to say goodbye, I know he’d want to come with me. But I also know how he gets. Overprotective and overbearing. I’ll have enough of that coming from my parents. I don’t need it from him, too.
As I step through the front door of my house, the familiar scent of home envelops me, offering a fleeting moment of solace amidst the anxious energy that’s consumed my morning.
But even as I take refuge in the familiar surroundings, I’m not looking forward to the conversation I’m about to have.
I’m not ready.
My parents are waiting for me in the living room, their faces etched with worry and concern. And beside them stands a police officer, his presence a stark reminder of the events that unfolded less than twenty-four hours ago.
"Sweetheart, are you alright?" My mother's voice trembles with emotion as she rushes to my side, enveloping me in a tight embrace. “I’ve been so worried. They said you were attacked—” she chokes on a sob. “Oh, my god. What did he do to you?”
"I'm okay, Mom," I manage to tell her. “I’m fine.” Lie. “I’m okay.” She clings to me the way she did in the hospital.Before.Only this time, I didn’t try to take my own life. Someone else did.
I wince as her hold on me tightens, but I don’t have it in me to ask her to let go.
After more tears and whispered words, she finally releases me and reclaims her seat beside my father. She pats the space next to her, a silent encouragement to join them.
I don’t think I can have this conversation and look at them, so instead, I take the armchair kitty corner to the couch.
Thankfully, Mom doesn’t comment on my choice, but she doesn’t look happy about it. Her eyes are glued to my face, horror spreading across her features as she takes in each splotch of blue and purple she can find. It’s a good thing Gabriel’s sweats and oversized sweater hide the rest of my body from view. With the way Mom is looking at me, I’m surprised she hasn’t insisted we go to the hospital.
Dad remains stoic, his gaze fixed on me with unwavering intensity. He’s trying to keep it together. This is his politician persona. But I can see the pain lurking beneath the surface, the silent anguish of a father who would do anything to protect his daughter.
For his benefit, I force out a small smile.
I hate this.
That I’ve inadvertently caused my parents more grief.
“Ms. Russo,” the officer begins. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”
“Sure,” I tell him, tucking my legs beneath me.
“Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?—”
“She’s fine speaking here,” my dad interjects. There’s a knock on the door and my mom rushes to answer it. “And she won’t be answering any questions until her counsel has arrived.”
Mom ushers a man into the room. He’s vaguely familiar. Tall, mid-forties. His tan skin contracts nicely against his well-cut navy-blue suit.
I’ve met him before. Though only briefly. He works for Dad. I’ve seen him around on the campaign trail. “Cecilia, this is Mr. Ayala.” To him, Mom adds, “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.”
My manners and the expectant looks on my parents' faces force me to stand up and shake Mr. Ayala’s hand before he moves on to shake the hand of the officer, handing him one of his business cards.
“Where are we?” Mr. Ayala asks, taking the last available seat.
The officer clears his throat. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” he says. “Ms. Russo isn’t under arrest. I’m just here to ask her a few questions. A lawyer isn’t needed for this conversation.”
“Officer—?” Mr. Ayala starts to interject.
