He pushes inside of me, the thrust deep, making me gasp. He's harder now than he was before he even came. "I know."
He's a machine, going on and on as night falls, not stopping until my body is tired, both of us covered in sweat from head to toe. I lay in his arms, my head on his chest. We're both quiet as we catch our breath, his heartbeat settling back into a steady, normal rhythm.
I don't think my heart will ever beat the same.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly after a while.
"Yes," I whisper. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You were hauled into the police station today. That has to be upsetting."
"It was," I admit. "They think I… I mean, they thought I had something to do with what happened to Santino."
"No, they didn't," he says. "They don't think that."
"But they said—"
"Just because they say it, doesn't meant they believe it," he says. "They don't think you killed Santino."
"Then why did they say it?"
"Because they think I did."
I tense. "That's just crazy."
I expect him to agree, to laugh it off, but he says nothing. He makes no noise at all. The silence that smothers the room is deafening, chilling, and I'm not sure what to say after that. I lay there, staring into the darkness, as Naz's hand strokes my bare side, holding me tightly like he'll never let me go.
I take the train to Manhattan, and then another train to New Jersey, hailing a cab outside of the train station in Newark. The driver looks at me peculiarly when I read off the address, making no move to pull away.
"You sure that address is right?" he asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
"Uh…" I glance at the paper. "Yes."
"Okay, then."
He starts on the road. Newark reminds me of a smaller New York City, with the skyscrapers and busy streets. I'm admiring it as we drive through the city, tensing a little when he starts weaving away. He passes through neighborhoods, each one growing rougher, until we start to approach what looks like the slums. Windows are smashed and boarded up, graffiti covering the sides of crumbling buildings, trash scattering the sidewalks.
Please keep going.
Please keep going.
He stops.
The cab pulls up in front of an old brick house. The one attached to it is abandoned, completely gutted, but the other looks inhabitable. Barely. My mother's car is nowhere to be seen. I see no signs of life around it, no lights on inside and no furniture on the small porch. I'm about to tell the driver to keep going, to take me back, because there has to be some mistake, when the curtain in the front room shifts around.
Someone's inside.
I pay the driver and get out, starting toward the house. I step up on the porch and knock, my heart hammering in my chest as I wait. My mother can't stay here, in this house, in this neighborhood. It's not safe.
The door yanks open, a pair of deep brown eyes meeting mine. They belong to a man with jet-black hair, parted to the side and styled back, shiny from the amount of product in it. He has a moustache, but the rest of his face is freshly shaved. He's wearing dark gray slacks and a vest, with a light button down shirt. An unlit cigar is between his lips.
He doesn't look like someone who would live in the slums.
"I'm looking for Carrie," I say.
"I know," he responds, the thick accent striking me. The same guy from the call. He steps aside, motioning for me to come in. Hesitantly, I step inside, seeing the house is mostly empty. He stands at the door for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping along the street. "You come alone?"
"Of course."
Satisfied, he shuts the door. He strolls past me, a peculiar sway to his walk, a strange limp like he can't quite bend one of his knees. "Your mother's not here."
I stare at him, tensing as he heads into the living room and sits down on the shabby old couch—the only stitch of furniture in the room. "Where is she?"
"Have a seat," he says casually, motioning toward the torn, filthy cushion beside him.
"Where is she?" I ask again, making no move to come any closer. My eyes shift to the door, making sure it's unlocked in case I need to make a hasty exit, before I glance back at him. He's watching me, his lips curving with amusement as he strikes a match and lights his cigar. He tosses the match down on the wooden floor, stomping it out with his shiny black dress shoes.
"I'm not going to harm you, girl."
I try for the third time. "Where is she?"
He slouches on the couch, resting his arm along the back of it as he stretches out, his gaze still firmly on me. "She stepped out."
"Why? Where did she go?"
"She thought it was best if she wasn't here, if I explain it to you."
"Explain what?"
He takes a drag from his cigar and is quiet for a moment, flicking his ashes straight onto the floor. "Why I left you."
I stare at him, as every ounce of strength I tried to build, putting me on guard, fades away in a wave of shock. No way. I stare in disbelief, those words sinking in, my eyes roaming his face. Even from this distance, the freckles dotting his skin stand out like tiny beacons, displaying the truth before he even has to say it.
I haven't been able to get ahold of my mother in weeks because she's been with my father, the man who abandoned us, who walked out on us. It's his fault she is the way she is, his fault she was constantly chasing ghosts, chasing him… and she found him. She fucking found him.
And she's obviously even worse off for having done so.
"I know why you left," I say, taking a step back. There are a few feet between us, but it suddenly feels way too close. "You left because you're a fucking coward."
"Kissimmee…"
"No," I say, shaking my head, the sound of that nickname coming from him stirring up anger. "Don't dare call me that! What gives you the right?"
"Considering I gave you the nickname, I say I have plenty of right," he says. "I called you that when she was pregnant, my little Kissimmee baby. You were made there, you know, down in Kissimmee. So that's what gives me the right."
"You have no right to even talk to me. You're nobody to me. Nothing. You lost all rights when you walked away. I didn't need you. I don't need you. But she loved you."
"I loved her, too. I still love her. She knows that, she always has."
"You're wrong," I say. "She was a mess, could never settle down or trust, always running because of you."