Chapter 4
A place where two brothers remembered being young.
Then a car door slammed somewhere beyond the buildings, and the moment vanished.
I left them in the laundry room and took a longer route to my car.
No one followed me.
No one waited beside the vehicle.
Still, I checked beneath it, inside it, and around every parked car on the street.
When I returned, Beatrice was supporting Patrick by the elbow.
He pretended not to need it.
She pretended not to notice.
We drove north without speaking.
Chicago passed in fragments beyond the windows—traffic lights glowing through snowfall, late buses carrying tired workers home, storefronts half-hidden behind fogged glass.
Patrick sat in the back seat beside Beatrice.
I watched him in the mirror.
He watched the city.
“What?” I asked.
“It changed,” he said.
“Twelve years is a long time.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been in Chicago.”
“Not this part. Not often.”
His answer reminded me how small his world had become.
Apartment.
Pharmacy.
Radio repair shop.
Library.
A handful of streets chosen for anonymity rather than beauty.
I had lived in the same city and occupied another universe.
My phone vibrated again.
Lorenzo.
I let it ring.
Patrick noticed.
“You should answer.”
“Why?”
“Because silence can be louder than accusation.”
I looked at him in the mirror.
“That sounds like something Father would have said.”
His face changed.
“Then forget it.”
“No.”
I picked up.
“Where are you?” Lorenzo asked before I spoke.
His voice was controlled, but I knew him well enough to hear the strain beneath it.
“Driving.”
“With Beatrice?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Where did you find her?”
“South Side.”
May you like
“Which building?”
I let the silence stretch.
