My eyes shift to Jenna. "And thank you. For coming to my rescue."
Jenna grabs a drink for herself, lifts it slightly toward mine. "Anytime."
Our glasses clink. She studies me for a beat, then adds, softer this time, "If you ever need it."
From the corner of my eye, I notice Gabe and Massimo talking to someone on the phone. Massimo looks pissed, and Gabe doesn't look much happier. I strain my ears, but all I hear is: "Fucker… Salazar… not coming."
I have no idea what it means, but I'm pretty sure Salazar just dug his own grave.
A week later…
The sky is too bright for a day like this. It shouldn't be. It should be gray. Clouded. Heavy. Something that matches the weight in my chest. Instead, the sun is out. Warm. Indifferent. Like the world didn't get the memo.
I stand in front of the mirror for a long time before I leave. The simple black dress is loose on me. I must have lost weight since… since Pete was killed. But it's the only black dress I have, and it's appropriate. Like there's a rulebook somewhere for this kind of thing.What to wear when your husband gets murdered.
My hands smooth over the fabric again. And again. Pointless. I still don't recognize the woman staring back at me. Her face is pale. Too pale. The bruises are faintly visible beneath makeup that doesn't quite do its job. Her eyes, hell, her eyes look older. Colder. Like something burned through them and left something else behind.
Pete is gone. The thought lands differently now. Not like a shock. Not like a scream. Just… a fact. A permanent one.
Mom is talking behind me. How sorry she is that she can't go, but she's feelingoffagain. That this is too much for her. I barely hear her, her voice is distant, muted. Like I'm underwater. I want to tell her that's okay, that I understand, but for once the lie won't come out of my mouth, because the truth is I don't. I don't understand how she can stay home when she knows I'm hurting. Why she can't just be there forme. For once. Another part of me is almost relieved that she's not coming, because it means I can focus on Pete and myself. I have no doubt she would find a way to make the funeral about herself.
The church is already filling when we arrive. People turn. Look at me. That soft, pitying look. The one I've seen before. Just never directed at me. I hate it. I hate all of it.
"Stay close," Gabe murmurs near me.
My hand rests lightly on his elbow as I walk down the aisle. Appropriate. Pete and I never got to do this together. We didn't have any money. We went to a small wedding chapel, paid our hundred dollars, and that was that. Now, in death, I finally get to walk towards my husband. Only, he's in a coffin. Every step feels deliberate. Measured. Like if I go too fast, I'll break. Too slow, and I'll never make it.
The casket is already there. Overflowing with flowers, but not too much. It's closed. Thank God. I don't think I could survive seeing him like that again. I stop in front of it. For a second, everything goes quiet. Completely. No voices. No movement. Just me. And the reality of what's inside that box.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. My voice sounds small. Foreign. "I should have?—"
I stop. Because there are no words to finish the sentence. No version of events where this ends differently. I hold onto the edge of the casket. Tight. Too tight. Because underneaththe grief, it's still there. That heat. That anger. That need. They killed him. And they're still breathing. I turn my head to scan the room. Faces. Strangers. Friends. People pretending to understand. People who have no idea.
Somewhere—out there—are the men who did this. And for the first time since all this started—I don't feel like I'm going to fall apart. I feel… steady. Because grief? Grief can drown you. But anger? Anger keeps you standing. And right now, it's the only thing holding me up.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." Annette's voice is soft, practiced. Polished. I turn toward her.
She steps closer, all black dress and careful sympathy, her hand coming to my arm.
"We all are," she adds, waving lightly behind her. I follow the gesture. The women from the party. Even the purse lady herself. Rows of them. They give discreet little waves. Tight smiles. Sad eyes. Curiosity, barely hidden behind compassion. I nod. Because that's what I'm supposed to do.
"I've tried calling you," Annette manages not to make it sound like an accusation.
"I know," I reply quietly, remembering staring at her name as it popped up on the screen and being unable to make myself answer. "I'm sorry. It's just been… a lot."
That's an understatement if there ever was one. Her eyes sharpen slightly.
"What happened, Audra?" she asks. "No one's told us anything."
There it is. The real question. The reason she's here. Or part of it. I don't want to think of her like that. Of any of them like that. But I know how this works. News travels fast. And silence? Even faster. Still, Annette would've come anyway. I'm sure of it. Almost.
"I—" I start.
And stop. Because where would I even begin?My husband was tortured and killed. I was kidnapped. I cut a man's finger off a few days ago.
Yeah.
No.