Unforgotten (37 page)

“The Bureau wanted your eyewitness testimony. But the quickest way to end an investigation was to eliminate the witness, in this case a girl who had seen and guessed too much. I had to get you away, keep you safe until we built our case.

“But Arthur Jackson moved with such efficiency, I realized his pockets were deeper than we’d thought. Neither the press nor the police reported the killing. Even the coroner’s findings were revised. There was no investigation, though the house was searched by Jackson’s cops; Vittorio’s evidence, confiscated.”

He had that wrong, Lance thought. It had been hidden in the cellar. If Nonno Marco had gone back to look there, he might have built a case after all.

“Without the record of transactions, our operation was a bust, but I knew Jackson would still try to silence you. Your father and grandfather were gone, but you were a messy detail, and Jackson didn’t like things messy. You could have testified against him, but a glimpse in the dark with no corroborating materials was not worth enough for me to break my word. I had promised to keep you safe, and there was only one way I could see to do that. Play out the role I’d begun.”

Lance glanced at Nonna. Nonno Marco had given her a new name, a new home, a new life—out of guilt and duty. He frowned. Should Nonno have told the truth to a young woman in the depth of grief and shock, whom he was sworn to protect? In a lawless, ruthless world he knew too well?

“What if he’d told you, Nonna, that he was responsible? What if you knew he’d gotten your pop killed?”

She blanched. “I w … ould have h … ated him.”

“Then it was better you didn’t know.”

She clenched her hands, her jaw working, saliva moistening the side of her mouth. Her gaze sharpened. “I bl … amed Papa.”

Lance set the pages aside. “You wouldn’t have gone with Nonno if you knew.” No marriage for them, no life together. He wouldn’t exist. She might not have even survived. Lance looked into her twisted face, seeing her struggle. Would she change it all, if she could?

Her voice was a rustle of brittle leaves. “Go a … way.”

He leaned forward, concern churning. No way would he leave her alone. “Let me stay.”

Tears poured from her eyes. Because of Nonno’s silence she had believed Vittorio guilty and carried the shame of it. He could have told her otherwise, but all their years together, he never had. Nonno’s whole life was deception, playing whatever role accomplished his ends—even his marriage to Nonna?

Lance got onto his knees and held her as she cried silently. Momma came up with soup, but left it and went out. He’d get an earful later, but for now he rested his head on Nonna’s and shared her tears.

Why had Nonno left this deathbed confession? What good could it do to reveal it all now? That wasn’t the man he’d known, the caring, laughing Nonno he’d known. Or was even that a part he’d played? Had the deceit eaten at him, the roles blending until he hardly knew who he was? Even Pop had said it. Were these pages Marco Michelli’s true identity? A cry to be known? Truly known. Lance swallowed his indignation. Nonno had chosen a life of mirrors. But Nonna had failed to recognize the illusion.

————

Rese walked with Monica through the indoor market, breathing the scents of tobacco being rolled in the cigar booth at the front, blocks of cheese, barrels of olives, and a dry salted fish that looked like something she’d nail to the wall. In the corner butcher stall, a young man waved his cleaver. “Yeah? You’re so desperate you call the operator, just so someone don’t hang up on you.”

The guy three stalls down called back, “You’re so desperate you talk to the recording.” The men working around them laughed. Rese shook her head. Men were basically men, but for some reason that amused instead of perturbed her.

“What can I get you, sweetie?” asked a robust, silver-templed man behind the meat case.

Rese shifted Nicky on her hip and looked for Monica. “I’m with her.”

Monica stepped up and scrutinized the veal. “Got any fresher than this?”

Rese wandered as the two argued over the condition of the meat that had looked fine to her—not that she’d know what veal looked like, good or otherwise. The horrifying prospect of dinner with Monica had been diluted by other meals that had not become interrogations since Bobby and Monica preferred to talk about themselves. If Monica’s various ailments were less than entertaining, Bobby’s renditions of the ways people hung up on him were truly funny. Bobby liked the spotlight, and when he got rolling, it was stand-up comedy.

Their children had stories too; each seemed determined to impress her more than the last, a trait from their dad, she supposed. She shifted Nicky again as they shopped, trying to keep him from reaching for everything that looked good, and some things that didn’t.

“Bread we’ll get at Terranova’s.” Monica shouldered her canvas carryall. “Addeo’s is good, but too predictable. Terranova’s gets a little burnt sometimes, and Bobby likes that better.” For all their bickering, Monica knew and cared about Bobby’s countless preferences. Either he was the pickiest man alive or Monica lived to please.

In contrast, Lucy’s husband, Lou, hardly voiced an opinion. An insurance adjuster by day, league bowler by night, he was happy for whatever Lucy set before him. But then, she’d been right about Lucy’s cooking. She didn’t have Lance’s flair, but she knew her way around a stove. She and Lou would add balance to tonight’s experience, but their family nearly doubled the children.

At least she and Lance— She stopped. She’d been thinking at least they didn’t add kids to the party, but was that a good thing? Nicky had snuggled his head into her neck, his little hand pressed to the opposite side, an unconscious hug of sleepy abandon. Before encountering Lance’s family, she hadn’t thought about children. Her focus had been so narrow, her identity staunchly defined, her feminine inclinations so fiercely controlled that she hardly knew what to do with the melting inside her now.

Monica was chattering about using the restaurant instead of her own kitchen. “We’ll fit better around a table down there. Or use two. We can give the children their own and have grown-up conversation for a change.”

Rese nodded. “It’s handy having the restaurant.”

Lance had used up a good deal of its inventory, depleting the shelves of canned tomatoes and olives, oils and vinegars, dried mushrooms and pasta. He had intended to make a plan with Antonia as to its future, but she wasn’t sure how far that had gotten. Without Lance or Nonna, Lucy had said, the restaurant wouldn’t be the same. Rese hadn’t flinched. If Lance intended to take over Antonia’s restaurant, he’d have said so.

But his whole focus was on Antonia, getting through the letter so they could leave. How could those few pages take so long to get through, and be so draining? Antonia was fragile and Lance desperate not to upset her, but if it was so bad, why read it at all?

Lance kept the content to himself, and that was fine. She didn’t need to know people’s secrets. Sofie’s disclosure had shaken her, even without details. If someone so brilliant, so lovely, so loved could despair, what hope was there? She almost wished she didn’t know, didn’t have to realize that everyone struggled, that there was no way out of it. A little secrecy might be a good thing. She just didn’t want things that mattered kept from her. Big things. Life-changing things.

“Now some ravioli for lunch.” Monica headed for Borgatti’s. “It’s all the kids want.” She shrugged. “So, hey. Give them what they want.”

It was strange to think of children having that power. Between the bizarre combinations Mom had put together and the cans and packages Dad provided, Rese didn’t think she’d ever had the chance to wonder what she actually wanted to eat—a source of difficulty for Lance when he’d arrived. How could she not have an opinion?

It was almost as hard now, since everything he made was so good. She would not back down on which wood was better for a banister, or what brick could be saved, but when it came to food, he had more experience than she had ideas. She had learned to express appreciation, though. Lance’s exasperation had taught her that much.

She and Monica made their way back, chatting amiably in a way Rese could not have imagined when she first arrived. Monica was forceful, but fiercely caring underneath. As Lance said, she overnurtured, like Doria. Well, Rese thought, there were worse things.

She carried the dozy child all the way up for Monica and laid him in his bed, warmth growing inside as he scrunched into a ball and succumbed to sleep. It looked like Monica was ready to nap herself, so Rese headed back down, surprised to find the apartment door closed, though Antonia’s was open. It wasn’t locked, though. “Lance?” She stopped just inside.

He stood by the table over Star, who was huddled and shaking in a chair, her hair hacked off to the blond roots. Her head looked so pale and vulnerable it hit Rese low in the stomach. She closed the door and glanced around for the others.

“Rico’s working. Chaz too.”

She didn’t stop to wonder what Rico was working at, or why he wasn’t here to see what his rejection wrought. Lance cupped Star’s shoulder when she shuddered. Her eye sockets were gray as rain, her lips cracked and bleeding.

Rese looked from her to Lance, searching his face for answers as she joined them.

“She’s coming down from something,” he said softly.

“No way. She wouldn’t … she doesn’t …” Rese crouched, taking the icy hand—fingernails chewed to the quick—between her own. “Hey, Star.”

Star rocked. “‘Mercy but murders, pardon … par …’ ” She started to shiver, gripping herself. “Pardoning …”

Lance grabbed the folded blanket from the couch and wrapped it over her shoulders, even though the room was overwarm. Rese drew it closed at the front, then gripped Star’s hand again. “Do you need a doctor?” Maybe she’d contracted some deadly virus, some food poisoning.

“‘Mercy but murders …’ ” “Star, look at me.” A passing glance was all she got.

Star tried to stand, then dropped to the chair again, scratching at her skin. Rese pulled her hand away from the raw patches on her arms. She’d never seen her this way. Distraught, yes, inconsolable, but never incoherent.

“She’s on the backside of it,” Lance said.

He could not be right. “She wouldn’t take drugs.” She avoided preservatives! But what else could it be? She’d been gone five days, not long enough to look like this.

“The best thing you can do is get her out of here.”

“Out?” Rese stared. He would make her leave?

“Take her home.”

Rese stiffened. “To Sonoma?”

“She’s obviously messed up. Odds are someone believes she owes him.”

Star was a magnet for men of lousy character, but she had always avoided real trouble—until now? “What do you mean, owes?”

“Did she take her money order?”

Rese shook her head. “It’s on the dresser.”

“Well, using isn’t free. There are always strings attached.”

“She wouldn’t use drugs.” But her argument was starting to seem feeble. “Can’t we keep her here?”

“What do you think the chances of that are?”

“I’ll talk to Rico. He’ll—”

“It’s not Rico.” Lance raised her up and stepped her aside. “You know how she is. She’ll take off the minute it hurts. And even if Rico doesn’t try, it’ll hurt. They’re both raw.”

“I can’t believe she’d—”

“Get her back to Sonoma. Keep her at the inn.”

“Lance, I can’t—”

“You have your return ticket. Use the money order for Star’s.”

“What if she won’t sign it?”

“Put it on a credit card. I’ll give you mine.”

She shook her head. “No, I just …”
Don’t want to leave without you
. “Won’t Rico help her when he sees this?”

“Probably. But I won’t let him.”

She did not believe he’d said that, and her face must have shown it.

“You don’t know what we’re dealing with.” He pulled her farther aside. “Suppose you’re right, and Star didn’t do this to herself.”

Rese swallowed. “She wouldn’t. Staying clean is her religion.”

“Then read between the lines.”

She shook her head.

“Come on, Rese.”

But she really didn’t know.

“Someone slipped her a mickey, then introduced a stronger cocktail. I’m guessing smack, but it could be meth or crack. And not in introductory doses.”

Rese expelled her breath. “Why? It’s not like Star resists. You said yourself sex is a drug to her.”

“It’s not about what she wants. There are predators and networks that eat women like Star alive. Addiction means control.”

“You think she’s addicted?”

“Not yet or she wouldn’t be here. But what happens next time? And if Rico interferes he could get killed.”

She closed her eyes, not wanting to believe it. Drugs were Star’s taboo, tapping into all her issues since birth. If she’d broken it, or someone had made her, the backlash could be horrible.

Lance gripped her shoulder. “Take her home.”

There was no choice, but it still stung. “What about you?”

“I’m close; I can feel it. As soon as I’ve done what I have to—”

“Or something else happens.” Panic seized her.

“Don’t.” He raised her face and kissed her. “I love you. I want to be with you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

She clutched the sides of his shirt as though holding on could matter. “I love you too.” The words were out before she thought, their impact radiating from him like daybreak.

He crushed her against him, kissing her neck, her jaw, her ear, breathing into her hair, “Now I don’t want you to go.”

“Can’t have it both ways, bud.” But she clung to him without reserve. She wanted him to take everything that was in her heart. He was her heart. But she looked at Star, kneading the blanket with her fingers and rocking. Reality descended. Star, her mother, other needs, other situations. She had no control over life. She could only do what was right, and trust.

————

Grindingly reluctant, Lance saw them to the airport. He had almost hoped there’d be nothing available, but by upgrading Rese’s ticket, for an outrageous amount, they’d gotten two first-class seats, the only thing available from LaGuardia to San Francisco—courtesy of Star’s trust.