Page 104 of Wicked Truths
Hours later and I’m still staring at the ceiling fans it spins lazily above me, creating a hypnotic pattern that matches the whirling thoughts in my head.
What was that transaction Dom mentioned?
And why does my mother hate him so much?
I roll onto my side and pull my knees to my chest.
A soft knock on my door makes me sit up quickly. I wipe my face, hoping I don’t look as wrecked as I feel.
“Come in,” I call, my voice still raspy from crying.
The door opens slowly, and Dom stands in the doorway. His imposing frame fills the space, but his expression is uncharacteristically hesitant. The hard lines of his face have softened.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the edge of my bed.
I nod, pulling my legs up to make room for him.
He sits down; the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, he just looks at me, his blue eyes searching my face.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he finally says. “That was...inexcusable.”
“It’s not your fault,” I mumble, picking at a loose thread on my comforter.
“It is.” His voice is firm. “My home should be a sanctuary for you, not a battlefield.”
I look up at him, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.
“Your mother and I...” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. But that’s no excuse for subjecting you to that kind of scene.”
Dom reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away, but I don’t. His hand covers mine, warm and steady.
“I promise you, piccola, it won’t happen again.”
Piccola.
There is something about the nickname. If he’s always called me it and maybe I put the information in my diary.
The diary that I still haven’t found.
27
Amara
I wait until Dom’sfootsteps fade down the hallway before I spring into action. My heart pounds as I slide off the bed and begin searching frantically for my diary. If I’ve written in it as religiously as Milly suggested, it might hold the key to everything I’ve forgotten.
I check under the mattress first. I’ve searched there already but this time I’m more determined than ever.
Then I check the dresser drawers, rifling through clothes and jewelry. Nothing. I move to my desk, pulling open drawers and sifting through papers. Still nothing.
Frustration builds as I scan the bookshelves, checking behind rows of novels and textbooks. I drop to my knees to look under the bed.
“Where would I hide something important?” I mutter, standing in the center of the room. Just like days ago, I’m flummoxed. I don’t have a clue where I’d hide it. I turn around in the room, my arms wide as I take everything in. I glance upward as I’m about to give up, and I see an air vent in the ceiling.
I narrow my eyes. I wouldn’t hide it there. Unless I had something to hide. But with nothing to lose, I turn off the ceiling fan before I drag my desk chair over, climb up, and examine the vent cover.
One screw is looser than the others.
My fingers tremble as I twist it free and pull the cover away. I reach inside, feeling nothing at first, then my fingertips brush against something leather-bound. I pull out a small black journal, my diary.
