After a weighted pause, she says, “This stays in the car, understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“A tip came in a few hours before Callisto received that text. It came to my desk because the call was placed from the Avellino home. The person identified themselves as a member of the staff and said they’d seen an unconscious woman being dragged upstairs, and that Enzo and Franco Avellino were carrying guns.”
“Selina Hernandez?” I guess.
Wilson scowls. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”
“Good idea,” I agree. “And I’ll forget her name.”
“Good.” After a long silence, she adds softly, “It’s not her real name, actually. She came to the station a few days ago to give her statement, and apparently you’re not the only would-be vigilante with a grudge against the Avellinos. Her mother nannied for the girls for almost seven years. Most of her childhood. One day, her mother didn’t come home from work. When she and her father raised hell, the family’s lawyers released a statement that the nanny had been fired for stealing and probably run off. The missing person’s case was buried.”
“Christ, that family is fucking evil.”
Callisto stirs in response to my sudden tension. I force my shoulders to relax and stroke her soft cheek until she settles.
“They are,” agrees Wilson. “But at least Los Angeles is free of them. And we won’t have an Avellino in charge of our state.”
Her words make me think of Callisto’s second cousins. One murdered for being gay, the other for running away from the family.
“What about the other Avellinos? In Chicago?”
Wilson shifts in her seat, putting on the blinker. I recognize the area—we’re almost there. Sure enough, when we turn a corner, I see a row of news vans. Reporters and cameramen mill thickly near a chain-link fence.
“I know you’re worried about them retaliating, Finn, but trust me, you don’t have to be. Even before Rafael’s death, the families rarely spoke. And since Vivian has been in charge there’s been no contact. I don’t think they approved of her.” She must notice my frown, because she adds, “That’s classified information straight from the FBI wiretaps, by the way.”
It helps. A little. I still want to take Callisto away. Chop off her hair. Change her name. Tattoo her face. Okay, maybe not that. But I might make her wear fake glasses again. Be my Nerdy Snow White.
Wilson passes a police barricade and navigates the long driveway, then pulls to a stop between two police cruisers. Car in park, she turns to face me.
“I want you to know that when Callisto called me and told me what she was doing, she wouldn’t listen to reason. I was livid. I would never put a civilian in that kind of position willingly.”
I smile in spite of myself. “She’s kinda stubborn, huh?”
“To put it mildly.” Glancing at Callisto, her gaze softens with admiration. “She knew she was being tracked via the cell phone Vivian gave her, so I had to jump in the car with her at a stoplight to get the wire on her. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the trick. Her idea, by the way. Thanks to her, we have a crystal clear recording of Vivian’s multiple confessions.”
I kiss the top of Callisto’s head.
Fucking brilliant, fierce, fearless woman.
Wilson turns off the engine, sighing. “I wish I knew why she wanted to see this.”
Outside the car is a freaking circus. Tons of uniformed and forensic types in white coats swarm Anthony Avellino’s ranch. As I watch, a body bag is carried from the stables and loaded into the back of a white van.
“How many so far?” I ask Wilson.
Her lips thin. “Eleven and counting.” She opens her door, letting in a wave of heat and noise.
Callisto lifts her head with a yawn. “Are we here?”
I kiss her temple. “Yep.”
She looks up at me, bronze sparking in the dark depths of her eyes. “Thank you for being here, even though you’re still mad at me.”
I chuckle. “I’m not mad mad. And I’m getting over it.”
Wilson pokes her head back inside, her gaze swinging between the two of us. She winks at me. “Just a little bruised ego. He wanted to be your hero, Calli, but you didn’t need one. Right, Finn?”
I roll my eyes. “Way to rub it in.”
Callisto laughs, the sound rusty. She hasn’t had much to laugh about recently—a fact I plan on remedying for the long-term.
But first, we’re digging up a garden.
42
Though the stables stand between us and the news cameras on the street, Wilson still had a tent erected over the raised garden bed. I don’t need to ask why—helicopters crisscross overhead—I’m just grateful we won’t be featured on the evening news.
The three of us are alone in the tent, Wilson standing nearby as Finn and I dig methodically in the bed. While the work in the stables and house continues loudly outside, we’re in our own little world, undisturbed to a level that points to pulled strings.
I don’t think about what’s happening outside, though. It’s enough to know that the bones of the wrongfully dead are finally beginning their journey to rest. There will be weeks, months, and years ahead for me to think about the families reunited with the remains of missing loved ones. The reopened wounds and bittersweet closure.
Perhaps Selina’s mother, our former nanny Adele, will be found in my family’s vile graveyard. For Selina’s sake, I hope so. After all the risks she took, she deserves to know what happened to her mother.
It was Selina who put the pieces together. Months ago, she overheard Enzo suggesting to Vivian that they “clean the stables.” Since the family didn’t own horses, the conversation struck her as odd. Then, a week later, she heard Lizzie and Vivian talking in the kitchen.
“I miss visiting Uncle Ant’s stables, Mom. When are you going to bring home a new horse for me?”
“I told you already—the stables are off-limits right now.”
“But my horses are getting lonely! They need a new friend.”
“Good God, Elizabeth. You know I hate it when you talk like that. It’s so morbid.”
“Do you think I can show Calli my horses someday?”
“Maybe someday, sweetheart. Fetch me an orange, will you?”
Selina’s face should be the one on front pages and news reels nationwide, not mine. But Wilson said she doesn’t want any recognition, only to put this all behind her and live a quiet life with her family.
I wish I had that choice.
Maybe someday…
Beside me, Finn sits back on his heels and wipes sweat from his brow. “Anything?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
I’m sure most of the people outside the tent think I’m nuts for requesting this. At least a few probably resent me being allowed here at all—a civilian digging through a potential crime scene. I’m lucky Wilson has the clout she does, regardless of whether she attributes that clout to me.
Finn hands me a water bottle, a not-so-subtle suggestion to rest. The tent is a sauna. I’m dripping sweat. Despite the small hand shovel I’m using, my fingers are raw from the old, dry soil, my cuticles near bleeding.
“Are you sure you don’t want a metal detector?” asks Wilson for the umpteenth time.
I shake my head. “He wouldn’t put it in something that would rust or with seals that might degrade.”
Wilson shoots Finn a concerned glance. He touches my shoulder. “Maybe we should take an actual break—grab some lunch. What do you say?”
“Ten more minutes. Please.”
He scans my face, eyes soft. “Okay, princess.”
We dig.
When my shovel hits something plastic, I don’t immediately rejoice. Old drip lines run inside the bed, most of them damaged, and we’ve had several instances of false hope this morning.
Dropping my shovel, I dig with my fingers, brushing and scooping until I see white PVC.
The drip lines are black.
“Finn.”
Registering the excitement in my voice, he joins me just as I pull a sealed tube from the ground. Wilson is a second behind him. Once she sees what’s in my hands, she whistles.
“Would you look at that. Don’t open it. I’ll be right back.” She runs from the tent.
Laughing, I hold up the thick, six-inch tube. “Thank you, Uncle Ant, for being so paranoid.”
Finn grins. “What do you think is in it? The letter?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Vivian wanted that letter my father sent from prison, and she believed I knew where it was. Plus, Ant said that something in my head—my memory—was a danger to the family. This was the only place I could think of. It was special to me. To us. Before my visits, Ant would bury little trinkets in here. Digging for treasure was the highlight of my weekends as a kid.”
“He sounds like an awesome uncle.”
My eyes sting with tears. “Yeah, he was. I just wish he could be here.”
Finn strokes sweaty hair from my temple. “I know.”
“Here we go,” Wilson says, jogging into the tent. Two detectives and a forensic tech follow.
The tech squats beside me. “May I?” he asks, holding out a gloved hand.
I give him the tube. Wilson hands him pliers. With one strong tug, the cap pops off. The tech trades pliers for tweezers, and seconds later removes a small, rolled piece of paper. Brows lifting, he looks at Wilson.
“This is all that’s in it.”
Wilson pulls on gloves and takes the piece of paper. I grab Finn’s hand as she carefully unrolls it.
“What is it?” I whisper.
A moment later Wilson looks up, her eyes wide and… laughing? “Take a look,” she says, her lips twisting comically. “No gloves necessary.”
She hands me the paper.
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve uncovered the final, biggest treasure of all! Your prize is a bowl of cotton candy ice cream, courtesy of your favorite uncle. Don’t forget to clean your feet before you come in the house. And put away your tools!
Uncle Ant
I’m laughing.
And crying.
And when the tears are gone, left in their wake is a small, tender kernel of peace.
“Should we head out?” asks Finn gently.
I glance around the tent. We’re alone, though I can see Wilson’s silhouette outside and hear her muted voice on a phone call.
“In a minute,” I tell him, picking up my shovel one more time. “There’s one more thing I have to do.”
I know where to dig, of course. I was the one who buried this particular item all those years ago. Two nights before Ant died. The very last time I saw him.
Bury it in the garden. Let the worms come for it as surely as they’re coming for me.
I can’t say why, exactly, I need to find the plaque. More closure, maybe. I want to know what Ant meant when he said the biggest threat to the family was in my head. Though I’m prepared to accept he didn’t mean it in any concrete sense but a more philosophical one, I don’t want to look back in ten years and regret not going the extra step.
Finn watches me as I shovel out dirt from the southwestern corner of the bed. He’s dangerously distracting—blue eyes electric, hair damp from sweat, tattooed arms on display. With effort, I tear my eyes from him and dig.
The moment I touch a tarp-wrapped bundle, I know I’ve found what I’m looking for.
I didn’t bury the plaque in tarp.
Which means Ant dug it up after I last saw him.
“What is that?” asks Finn, moving up behind me.
I’m too taut with nerves to respond. Setting the bundle on my lap, I unwrap it quickly to reveal the familiar plaque. We live in service to the family. It looks the same, old and battered, once a treasure and now trash. Disappointment surges toward me. Maybe he got drunk and nostalgic that night and wrapped it to protect it, thinking I might want it one day.
When I lift the plaque to show it to Finn, something flutters to my lap. A Ziploc bag with paper inside. I shove the plaque into Finn’s hands and grab the bag, barely believing what I’m seeing.
A letter. The letter.
Lined pages are folded in half and filled with my father’s distinct handwriting. On the visible page, my eyes jump from word to word.
Vivian—evidence—storage unit.
“Oh my God,” whispers Finn.
I nod, giddy, and yell, “Wilson!”
43
Moonlight, full and bright and demanding, pierces the gaps in the blinds over the bed. Finn sleeps beside me, his arm locked over my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again. I lie awake. On edge. My mind racing.
The relief and closure I felt three days ago when I found Uncle Ant’s note and the letter from my father has faded. Now all I feel is heavy and heartsick. Stuck in endless limbo as I wait for the debris of my blown-up life to settle. For Ellie to return my calls, for word on Vivian’s court date. For the coroner to release Enzo’s and Franco’s bodies for burial…
My sisters. My uncles. My mother, father, stepmother. Broken or dead, each and every one of us.
I got what I wanted, but it still hurts.
As children, we shape our world through the lens of our immediate family. They are our first teachers in lessons of love and fear, our very foundation of security. As we grow, that lens widens to include others. Friends and romantic partners. Classmates and teachers, colleagues and employers. But in crisis, I’ve found that our view of the world defaults to our beginnings.
Unless we break the foundation.
Rabbit was the first person I trusted enough to share details of my childhood with. A lifetime of secrets, suspicions, and fears came out. It was a miracle she believed me at all, but she had her own difficult story to tell. She understood the unique burden of being born at odds with your bloodline, and she helped me take the first step in freeing myself.
Neither of us could have known that the final step would be up to me, and that I would have to come home to take it.
Perhaps my mother, had she escaped Vivian’s ambition, could have changed the Avellino foundation. Gentle, a dreamer and artist, from my father’s rare stories and those old albums, she was in all ways the antithesis of Vivian. Would she have altered the family’s dark fate? Would her gentleness have softened my father in time? Or would she have shattered her own foundation and replaced it with theirs?
I’ll never have the answers I want, the questions themselves intangible. I’ll never know my mother or her family. She was an only child, her parents dead before I was born. Perhaps someday I can learn more. Find more stories from her life before the Avellinos.
The full moon buzzes in my blood, whisking me from one thought to another, one unknown to the next. I can’t change the past, nor who I was in it. Life will never be what it might have been, only what is.
But that knowledge doesn’t make the present any more bearable.
Only he does.
Rolling to face him, I read his features with my fingertips. Absorb his breath with mine. Revel in the tragic twists of fate that brought us together.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
His eyes open, the depths too clear for someone who was supposedly asleep. “Always, princess.”
Shifting forward, I fit my nose beside his, my mouth to his mouth. “You’re awake.”
His lips curve. “Guilty. You’ve been flopping around for hours. How’s a man supposed to sleep through that?”
But there’s worry beneath the words, and I know he was afraid I’d leave while he slept. All of us broken. Will we ever rebuild? Or is this our fate—to see the world through a veil of fear and uncertainty put in place when we were too young to defend ourselves against it?
“What’s on your mind, princess?”
I blink, focusing on his voice. “Will this heaviness ever go away?”
His arms come around me, rolling us until I’m settled on his chest. “It will. I promise.” The
words are punctuated with soft kisses, and end with a deeper one.
I love the taste of him, the effortless way we kiss, like our bodies aren’t learning but remembering each other. The strength and dependability of his arms. The pleasure his touch gives me.
But it’s not enough.
Finn breaks our kiss. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
The truth is, what I want I can’t speak. And what I need I can’t name.
“Does this feel wrong?” he asks carefully.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing to do with you. I think I’m what’s wrong. I’m wrong.”
He tenses beneath me, brow furrowing. “That’s bullshit. You’re everything that’s right.”
He can’t see it. Feel it. This shifting inside me. The broken pieces of my foundation fighting to find new alignment.
I move off him, swinging my feet to the floor and cradling my head in my hands. “I’m sure it’s just everything catching up with me. My head won’t shut up. Maybe I just need a drink. Something to take the edge off.”
The sheets move as he does. “Do you trust me?”
I lift my head, glancing back. He’s sitting up, moonlight dancing on his bare torso, shadows nesting happily in cuts of muscle. Awed, as I am nearly every time I look at him, I offer a distracted, “Yes, of course.”
He flings the sheet and pillows from the bed, leaving the mattress bare of everything but our naked bodies. Lowering onto his back, he tucks his arms behind his head.
“Use me.”
Despite everything we’ve done together, I blush and laugh nervously. “What?”
“As much as I’d like it to be true,” he muses with a wicked glint in his eye, “sex with me won’t be the answer to all your problems. But I think, maybe, if you can be in control here, it will make you feel less out of control in here.” He taps his temple, then resumes his supine position. “You’re a pressure cooker ready to blow. What you’ve been through… it’s a fucking miracle you haven’t lost your shit yet. I want you to let go safely, right now, with me. I’m not in charge, you are.”
The Golden Hour Page 19
