Page 67 of Caterina
We both know I’m right.
I laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course they didn’t.”
My mind is already moving ahead, trying to build the image anyway. Erica, visibly pregnant, probably tired, Emma strapped into her car seat with absolutely no idea that someone had decided a child and her mother were acceptable leverage. A car positioned to force them to stop. The calculation in that. The intention.
God.
I press my palm harder into the rail.
“Was it random?” I ask, though I already know the answer, or he would not be standing here looking at me like this. “Or do they know it wasn’t?”
“They know.”
I close my eyes for one second.
When I open them again, he is still standing there, and this is still life.
“How?”
“The route change wasn’t broad knowledge,” he says. “Very few people knew about it. That, coupled with access to a private garage that holds family vehicles, has your father convinced that there’s a mole in the ranks."
Erica and Emma.
The thought makes something cold and crawling move down my spine.
I wrap both arms around myself against the night air, though the cold is not really from the air at all.
"If someone tried to force Erica and Emma to a stop, then why was my family shocked when you brought up the idea that they might come after the children?" I ask. "Why was it only after you brought it up that Giovanni made the decision that the children would stay home?"
Adrian considers for a moment how to answer. "Likely, they thought what happened was more of a message than anything else. Not that they were being careless with the children," he explains, "but they're just not being safe enough."
“And they kept all of this from me,” I say.
This time, there is no anger in it at first. Just shock. Then, inevitably, anger follows.
Of course they did.
Of course they all sat in rooms and discussed routes and garages and notes and children and leverage and decided what I could handle later. What I needed to know. What version of the danger should be portioned out to me and when.
My mouth tightens so hard it hurts.
“I’m going to kill Vito.”
Adrian’s voice is monotone. “Get in line.”
That should not be funny.
It is not funny.
And still, something in me jerks in brief, incredulous acknowledgment before the fear crushes it again.
I look away from him, out over the yard, dark now except for the lights he adjusted and added. The side gate glows more clearly than usual. A stretch of grass. Shrubs. Fence line. All the ordinary pieces of my home, rearranged by knowledge into possible entries, exits, sight lines, vulnerabilities.
This morning, the house felt invaded by his presence.
Tonight it feels invaded by information.
I hate that I know what to look for now.
