After my weapons are put away, I go over to the bed and take out the letter, hoping it’ll distract me for a little while from this shitty day. I’ve probably read the thing a thousand times since I found it over two years ago. It was dated six years before that, the night before she died, addressed to an Everson Milantes.
Dear Everson,
I know it’s been over a decade and a half since we spoke to each other again and I know you said not to contact you, all things considering, but I really need to talk to you.
I’m not even sure how to start. However I put this it may break hearts and ruin lives, but it could also free lives, like my daughter’s. Or should I say our daughter’s. There. I wrote it. It’s out. And let me tell you, she’s beautiful, feisty, strong—way stronger than anyone I’ve ever met… the things she’s been through… I can’t even imagine.
God, I know you’re probably reading this and thinking how? How could I not tell you until now when she’s all grown up? How could I keep this not only from you, but from her? Well, at first it was because I wasn’t sure if she was yours. There was a time when you both sort of crossed over, which I’m so sorry for. But if I’m being honest with myself a lot of it had to do with that I was afraid. Afraid of living a life where I had to struggle for money. Afraid of her living one as well. Afraid of what Larenze would do. I thought I could protect her and myself keep everything a secret, but I was wrong. And I’m really starting to get worried that the wrong people will find out. You know as well as I do what the consequences for this will be for the both of us. Please, please tell me you’ll help her. You were such a kind man. Please tell me I didn’t break that with what I did to you by choosing Larenze.
I really need your help Everson. There’s so much more to it, more than I can put into words. Larenze has his secrets as well and I’ve been looking into them. What I’m finding out makes me even more afraid. Not just for myself, but our daughter. I don’t want her following in those footsteps anymore, but I fear it’s too late—that she can’t go back from where she’s headed. So please, help.
Yours,
Lalana Anders Anelli
The letter never made it to Everson, because my mother died the next day, another reason why I found her death such a mystery. Yes, it could be coincidental, but at the same time, what if the wrong person found out that I might not be an Anelli? Like my father? I’d love to be one of those people who couldn’t believe her father was capable of such a thing, but I’m not. I’ve heard of some of the things my father’s capable of. God-awful things that make even me afraid of him sometimes and apparently it did for my mother as well. She clearly didn’t want me following in his footsteps, but already thought I was, which hurts. Back when she wrote it, I didn’t think I was that bad of a person. Now of course it’s different, but she couldn’t possibly have known that, could she? Did she really think that poorly of me? She clearly thought that poorly of my father and I have to wonder, with as afraid as she sounded, could he have had something to do with her death?
My thoughts slowly drift to what the guy on the corner told me earlier. About the woman hanging around The Dusky Inn who looked a lot like me. The last time I saw my mother was when she was in her coffin. Dead. She was dead. I saw her die. But what if she’s not?
After analyzing my mother’s death and letter for way too long, I put it away, get up, and wander over to the window, staring out at the night. I live in an apartment complex in a quiet neighborhood that normally makes me feel safe. But tonight it feels different. Every shadow, every noise, every movement makes me jump. I’m not sure if it’s the random letters or if Tenner’s attack has gotten to me more than I’m allowing myself to feel. But it is a safe place. A small town in the middle of nowhere. The perfect set up. But if the did find out where I was living, I wouldn’t be too hard to track down.
What if they’re out there watching me?
Who are they?
As I’m staring out the window, I notice a car parked on the curb just across the street. It’s black with tinted windows, nearly blending into the night, yet to me it stands out like sore thumb. All the mafia men that I grew up around have that type of car to keep a low profile. Could this be it? Could this be who’s been sending me notes? I need to find out where the plates are from. Hurrying over to my closet, I slip on a jacket and a pair of boots, then grab one of my smaller handguns so I won’t scare the shit out of my neighbors if I do cross paths with one of them. I go out the back door so if there is someone in the car, they won’t see me coming. I rush down the steps, keeping my back to the wall, my eyes focused on the field just out back. It’s flat and bare enough that I can see there’s nothing out there. Coast clear there, so I round the corner of the apartment and lower my gun to my side and cautiously cross the parking lot, staying in the shadows of the carports and cars as long as possible. I backtrack a little ways, the walk upward, so I approach the rear of the car. When I get close enough, I see that the plates aren’t from Massachusetts, but from here with a bright neon green sticker that says “Back off my Rear.” The sticker stands out on the nice car like a sore thumb and seems oddly out of place.
It doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside so I move around and peer in the window. It’s clean and empty except for a few papers in the middle console and a bag on the passenger seat. I glance around from left to right, making sure that no one is around, then I open the door and search around. The receipts aren’t cause for suspicion, gas, food, the norm. I move onto the bag, which is strangely empty, but again nothing to raise a red flag. I open the glove box and find the rental car papers and nothing else. I don’t relax yet though, not until I check the trunk. The trunk is where all the bad stuff is kept. So I pop it open, climb out of the car, and round the back. There’s nothing there but a tire iron and jack and a pair of black stilettos—again odd, but nothing to be alarmed about.
Shaking my head at myself, I close the trunk and turn to go back inside, but stop dead in my tracks as I’m about to cross the street. For a flicker of a second, I swear I see someone in the shadows of the parking lot watching me. Tall, with a hoodie pulled over their head, smoking a cigarette and wearing boots. Could it be boots? The boots who saved me?
But when I blink, they’re gone. It happens so fast that it has to be my imagination. Or the bump on my head. Dammit, I need to find out who wrote the note before I go crazy. Or end up dead.
Chapter 6
Lola
I don’t plan on going to work the next day, not after what happened with Tenner. I’m not planning on quitting or anything simply because I need the cash. Although, I’ll admit, I’m more shaken up than I’d like to be and I spend most of the morning trying to bury everything down where it belongs.
But then I get a call from Reagan telling me I can either come in or not get the couple of grand owed to me for the prior two weeks work. He doesn’t give me time to argue, simply tells me this and hangs up on me. So I get my ass down to the Inn.
I think about going to Nyjah first, but decide to face this head on. My problem. No one else needs to get involved.
Reagan has this office upstairs that has rows of windows, but he’s chosen to board them up so that not a single drop of sunlight can sneak in. It’s always dark and musty in there and smells a little moldy. There’s this antique armoire in the corner that’s always locked with a chain and padlock. On the far back corner is a desk that’s always clutter in garbage and papers and when I walk in Reagan is sitting there reading a paper over. He has shoulder length hair, is always wearing a worn t-shirt, and is smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t look like Nyjah except for the eyes, only Reagan’s have more wrinkles around it and a harder, more unwelcoming.