I answer—I have no idea even what I’m saying, but wordscome out of my mouth. She asks about my apartment, my workload, my health. I respond on autopilot while my mind races at light speed.
Why does she not want me digging? What doesn’t she want me to find?
She must not know me at all if she thinks threatening me will make me back off. Coming down so hard on me was exactly the worst possible approach. Now I’m not just curious—I’mravenousto uncover whatever secrets are buried in my father’s case file. And I’m fucking going to find out every single thing.
I’ll just be smarter about it this time. Keep my digging away from the bureau.
After ten minutes of hollow small talk, Stacey finally lets me go, claiming exhaustion. My stomach chooses that moment to let out a growl so loud it could wake the dead, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day. I mumble my goodbyes and escape Greg’s office, feeling like I’ve just survived an interrogation.
The first thing I do is hit the nearest fast food joint and order something greasy and caloric. I don’t even taste it as I shovel it mechanically into my mouth, my eyes glazed over, seeing not the food in front of me but connections, patterns, secrets….
When I’m done, I take a cab home, but I don’t go inside. I can’t. I’m too wired. Too restless. My brain feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical socket.
I put on my helmet, straddle my bike, and fire her up. The engine roars to life beneath me, but even that doesn’t thrill me like it usually does.
I hit the road with no destination in mind, just needing speed and wind and the rush of adrenaline that comes with controlled danger. I feel like my world is caving in. Maybe that’s dramatic, but Stacey’s reaction keeps replaying in my head like a warning bell. She doesn’t want me looking into the past.Why? What doesn’t she want me to find? What if there were foul plays? What if Stacey knows more than she’s letting on? What if everything I’ve believed about my father’s death has been a carefully constructed lie?
I’m not sure how long I ride—could be minutes, hours. But gradually, I become aware that I’m slowing down, that the road is coming to an end, and my spine stiffens at the sight of the big building looming in front of me. I park but keep the engine running as I stare at it.
An innocuous supermarket that looks like any other to most eyes, but to me it’s a vault of memories, emotions, scars…
Why the hell did I come here?
My breath comes out in an icy gust as I look up at the glistening board at the top. A fancy, curvy capital letter A, followed by the rest of the letters in elegant cursive:Azalea’s.
A supermarket. An important landmark in Little Italy. Named afterme.
I finally kill the engine and kick down the brake stand.
Each step towards the store feels like I’m walking through molasses. The closer I get, the heavier the memories sit on my chest. When I reach the door, I already know what I’m going to find—it’s locked, of course. I sigh as I pull out the scanning device I always keep on me. I hate being on the wrong side of locks—a hate I picked up from Katie’s phobia. She’s been trapped behind way too many locked doors in her life.
Flicking on the blue light, I run it over the keypad. Four digits glow brighter than the rest, smudged from overuse. Clearly the most-pressed numbers.
Now I just have to figure out the correct sequence.
I frown as the numbers swirl in my head, my brain arranging and rearranging them over and over into different combinations. On pure instinct, I punch in a sequence that feels right—and by some miracle, I get it right on the first try.
“Yes.” For a moment, I forget where I am and what I’mdoing, pumping my fist in triumph like I’ve just won the lottery instead of breaking into a supermarket linked to my darkest memories.
A shudder of pleasure runs through me as I step inside, instantly wrapped in the lingering warmth from the heater that was no doubt on all day. Pocketing my scanner, I inch forward slowly, my eyes immediately sweeping over the huge open space broken only by rows and rows of shelves and dangling signboards. My gaze finds the security cameras mounted in their usual spots, high on the walls, quietly recording.
Whatever. By the time they check the feed in the morning, I’ll be long gone. Still, I keep my head down, angling myself just right so that even if someone does review it, they won’t get a clear look at my face in the dim lighting.
I stand motionless inside the entrance, glancing around the store, trying to recall the events of that night fifteen years ago—the night I like to think of as the catalyst. But the building now is nothing like it was then.
In my dreams, it plays out so vividly, like it just happened. But standing here now, the only memory that comes clearly is ten years ago. When Rafael brought me back to show what he turned my trauma ground into.
The layout is almost identical to how it was then. The checkout counter is still to the right of the door, and a big Christmas tree stands next to it, though unlit. And there, in exactly the same place as before, a dark mistletoe dangles from the aisle sign, the only difference being the words on the sign.
A powerful wave of déjà vu washes over me, so intense it’s almost dizzying. For one wild, irrational moment, I half expect Rafael to materialize from one of the aisles, scaring the hell out of me like he did back then.
Ridiculous, of course. He has absolutely no reason to be here. My brain knows this, but my thundering heart refuses to be convinced.
My lips tingle as I walk underneath the mistletoe, remembering the hot kiss we shared in this exact spot. The kiss that led to the most mind-blowing oral experience of my life. I’ve been with other people—two before Rafael, and one after—but none of them, not even combined, could hold a candle to what he did to me that night.
My nipples tighten, beading as phantom sensations ghost across my skin. I can almost feel his mouth on them, his hands mapping every inch of my body. I shake my head and walk faster, moving aimlessly through the aisles, forcing myself to focus on items on the shelves—cereal boxes, canned goods, household cleaners—anything to distract myself from the way my body is responding to mere memories.
Fucking Rafael. Even when he’s not here, he can still unravel me.
