Page 59 of Caterina
Instead, I stand there in the warm kitchen with Bianca’s food open in front of me and the whole day pressing against the back of my ribs.
And it makes me feel a little sick. The thought of putting food in my stomach.
I hear the faint sound of movement somewhere deeper in the house.
Not loud. I get the feeling he could be completely silent if he really needed to.
He’s probably finishing his perimeter for the night. Doors, windows, exterior lines, blind spots, cameras, garage, side gate, maybe the yard.
No, no maybes about it. He did a complete and thorough walkthrough of the house. And didn't miss a single thing. I've come to realize that he's not the type of man to miss anything.
I close the container again, suddenly irritated by the idea of eating while he’s still moving through my house as if it is now partially his to assess.
No. Not his.
Never his.
I lift the foil from the second container just to have something to do with my hands. This one is chicken, golden and fragrant with rosemary and lemon, resting on a bed of wilted greens. A third container holds roasted vegetables, caramelized at the edges, still steaming slightly.
It’s a feast.
It’s Bianca trying to take care of everyone because she doesn’t know what else to do when fear moves in.
And it’s also a reminder of the people I love, and that I’m scared for them now in a way I wasn’t this morning.
This is ridiculous.
I am standing in my kitchen, arguing silently with myself about whether a man I did not ask for might be right about the level of danger surrounding my family.
I hate him for making me ask the question seriously.
I hate my family for making him necessary in the first place.
And I hate, maybe most of all, the part of me that is no longer sure he is overreacting.
I hear the soft click of a door somewhere down the hall. Then footsteps. Quiet, yet unmistakable.
I don’t turn around immediately.
Instead, I stand there with both hands on the kitchen island, looking down at Bianca’s food and the warm light on the stone, and think, absurdly, that this must be what it feels like when your life has begun shifting under your feet so gradually that you only notice when you finally lose your balance.
Chapter Nine
Adrian
I know she’s in the kitchen before I reach it.
Not because I hear her. She moves more quietly than most people, I suspect, even when she knows she's alone.
Even after less than a day, I'm beginning to get that sixth sense of her whereabouts the way I do with my clients.
I step into the kitchen and find her standing at the island with containers of food open in front of her.
Bianca’s doing. The whole house smells like garlic, tomato, baked cheese, and bread. Something rich and heavy enough. Caterina has changed since we got back from the casino.
She’s barefoot now, in lounge clothes, her hair damp and loose down her back, one hand braced against the stone countertop, the other resting near the foil she’s peeled back from the container.
For a second, she doesn’t realize I’m there.
