Chapter 2: The Back Entrance
I locked my phone and slipped it into my pocket before returning to the front room. The screen seemed to burn against my thigh, but I kept my face still.
Luca leaned in the kitchen doorway, still wearing Dad’s robe. Mom was on her knees again, though the patch of marble in front of her shone clean.
“I think I’ll find a hotel,” I said. “You’re right. I should’ve called.”
His expression softened into something close to satisfaction.
“Probably for the best. We’ve got a lot going on.”
“Of course.”
Mom’s cloth moved in small, quick circles. She didn’t look at me.
I picked up my bag and headed for the front door. My hand was on the knob when Luca called after me.
“I’ll have Wendy get your things out of the guest room tomorrow.”
“Don’t trouble her,” I said. “I can manage.”
Outside, the afternoon air felt too bright. I walked down the front path and kept going until I reached my car. Then I got in, shut the door, and sat with both hands on the wheel.
Through the wide front window, I could see the living room. Wendy came in carrying the envelopes from the side table. She didn’t pause to read one. She held the stack against her chest and went up the stairs.
The envelopes disappeared with her.
I waited until I could no longer hear her footsteps. Then I left my bag in the car and circled around the side of the house, keeping close to the shrubs. The kitchen door had always stuck in damp weather. It still did. I lifted the handle and eased it open with my shoulder.
The smell of lemon cleaner met me first. Beneath it lingered the sour, sweet scent of spilled wine.
Mom was still on the floor, scrubbing a spot that wasn’t there.
“Mom,” I whispered.
She jerked so hard the cloth slid from her hand.
“It’s me.”
Her gaze flicked toward the hall. “You said you were leaving.”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.” I stayed by the counter, far enough away that she had room to move. “Can we sit together? Just for a minute?”
She looked at the empty patch of marble. “I have to finish.”
“It’s clean.”
“I missed some.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Her shoulders trembled. She pressed the cloth down and dragged it over the same shining stone.
I lowered my voice. “Why did you think I wouldn’t come home?”
For a moment, she seemed not to understand the question. Then she stared at me, and something inside her face gave way.
“Luca said you chose it.”
“Chose what?”
“Being gone.” She swallowed. “He said you didn’t want to see me. That you were tired of sending money and tired of me asking for anything.”
My throat tightened. “I never said that.”
“He said you’d made your life somewhere else.” Her fingers twisted in the wet cloth. “He said I shouldn’t keep waiting.”
“I called you.”
She looked down.
“I wrote,” I said. “I called every week.”
“He said the calls were finished.”
The room seemed to tilt around those words. All the months I’d spent picturing her answering in the kitchen, telling me about the weather, asking when I might visit—each one had been a place Luca had quietly stood between us.
“Did you get my letters?”
Her eyes lifted, uncertain and hurt. “I don’t know.”
I wanted to reach for her. I wanted to gather her up and carry her out of the house, away from the robe and the stains and the voice that had taught her not to wait for me. But she was watching my hands now, so I kept them at my sides.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Her face crumpled.
“I thought you were angry with me,” she whispered. “I thought I’d done something wrong.”
“You didn’t.”
A car door slammed outside.
Mom went pale. She grabbed my wrist, then released it at once, as if even that brief touch might get her in trouble.
“You have to hide.”
“Mom—”
“Please. He can’t find you here.”
The words were so frightened, so practiced, that they cut deeper than a shout. I stepped back as she pointed toward the narrow pantry beside the kitchen. Its door stood open, shelves crowded with tins and folded grocery bags.
I slipped inside. The space smelled of dust, coffee, and dried herbs. Through the crack in the door, I could see only a slice of the kitchen and the lower half of the hallway.
Mom bent over the marble again, cloth in hand.
Footsteps crossed the porch. The front door opened.
“Where’s Jessi?” Luca asked.
“She left,” Mom said.
“Good.”
The answer came too quickly. A second set of footsteps followed him into the house.
Wendy.
“The envelopes are upstairs,” she said. “I didn’t sort them. I didn’t know which ones mattered.”
“You didn’t need to sort them,” Luca replied.
“I know that now.”
A cupboard opened. Glass clinked against glass.
Mom scrubbed.
“How’s she doing?” Wendy asked.
“She’s fine.”
“She didn’t look fine.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. We need her to understand what’s happening.”
A silence settled over the kitchen. I pressed my palm against the pantry shelf. Beneath my hand, a box of crackers gave a soft, papery crackle.
Mom’s cloth stopped.
Wendy lowered her voice. “The bank needs one last confirmation.”
Luca said nothing.
“If she refuses, they’ll review the file again,” Wendy continued. “You said it was almost done.”
“It is.”
“And your mother’s the one who has to confirm it.”
“I know what she has to do.”
Mom stared at the floor. Her fingers tightened around the cloth.
May you like
I had no way to tell what Wendy meant by confirmation or what they expected Mom to sign. I only knew they were talking about her as if she were an obstacle to move.
Wendy’s voice turned sharp. “Then make her sign.”
