Chapter 2
The photograph felt heavier than paper.
I stood in the dark apartment with Lorenzo’s younger face staring up at me from eleven years ago, one hand resting on Patrick’s shoulder as if they were allies.
As if they were family.
Outside, the wind dragged snow against the windows in dry, whispering waves.
Inside, no one moved.
“Because Lorenzo was the one who helped Beatrice’s mother get me out of the hospital,” Patrick had said.
“He saved you?”
“Once.”
“Then why hide it from me?”
“Because a year later, he came back.”
Patrick looked toward the window.
“And this time, he wasn’t alone.”
The words settled slowly.
Not like an explosion.
Like ice spreading across a lake.
I looked at Beatrice.
She had stopped packing. One of Patrick’s shirts hung loosely from her hands.
“What happened when he came back?” I asked.
Patrick did not answer.
The black sedan had disappeared from the street, but I could still feel its presence. That was the trouble with being watched. Even after the watcher was gone, the room remained altered.
Every doorway became a question.
Every silence became evidence.
“We need to leave,” Beatrice said quietly.
I kept my eyes on Patrick.
“First, I need the truth.”
“You need safety first,” she replied.
“I have spent twelve years being kept safe from the truth.”
Her face tightened.
May you like
“And he has spent twelve years trying to survive it.”
The words might have sounded sharp from someone else. From Beatrice, they sounded exhausted.
