Page 131 of Saint Céline
Sophia did not ask questions immediately. That was how I knew she understood enough to be afraid. She moved around the apartment with a calmness that felt almost unreal, locking the suite door, checking the chain, closing the curtains even though we were on the third floor and no one outside could see through the rain-dark windows unless they were deeply committed to being unsettling. Anya stood beside the kitchen counter with her phone in one hand and a mug in the other. Miss Astoria remained pressed against my ankle like a warm, breathing alarm system.
I sat on the sofa. My hands were folded in my lap. They looked normal if I did not stare too long at the slight tremor in my fingers.
“My father called,” I said again, because apparently the first time had not made it real enough.
Anya’s theatricality disappeared whenever something truly frightened her, which made her look younger and more dangerous at the same time.
“Your father as in…” She stopped, glanced at Sophia, then looked back at me. “Your actual father? The one who…?”
I nodded.
Sophia sat across from me, spine straight, expression controlled.
“How did he get your number?”
“I don’t know.”
The lie tasted familiar. I didn’t know for certain, but I knew enough to feel Vincent’s shadow in the question, even if I had no proof, even if the rational part of me kept insisting he would not go that far. Except rationality had become almost useless where Vincent was concerned.
“He asked for money,” I added.
Anya’s mouth tightened. “Of course he did.”
“Did he threaten you?” Sophia’s eyes moved over my face carefully.
I looked down at Miss Astoria. She had climbed halfway onto my foot now, pinning me in place as if I might vanish if not physically restrained. “He said it would be a shame if people found out where I came from.”
Silence settled over the room.
Anya looked furious before she looked hurt.
“That’s what he led with? After all these years?”
“He asked about Mom too.”
Sophia’s face changed. “What exactly did he say?”
I repeated what I could remember, which was, unfortunately, almost everything. Daniel’s voice had lodged itself in me with the unpleasant permanence of a bad smell, every word replaying too clearly no matter how much I wanted to forget. By the timeI finished, Anya had set the mug down hard enough that tea sloshed over the rim.
“I want to kill him.”
Sophia glanced at her. “What? I’m expressing a feeling, not drafting a plan.”
I almost laughed. It came out wrong, too close to a sob, and all three of us pretended not to notice.
Sophia’s voice softened. “Have you told your mother?”
“No.”
“Céline.”
“No.” The word came sharper than I intended, but panic was already rising again, slow and hot beneath my ribs. “She cannot know. Not yet.”
“She deserves to know if he might contact her.”
“I know what she deserves.”
Sophia’s face gentled in a way I hated because it made me feel unreasonable and loved at the same time.
