Chapter 8

Chapter 8

ELENA

The little voice rang down the hall, and then they came.

Three of them. Small, fast, barefoot on the marble. Two boys and a girl, maybe two or three years old, all with dark curly hair and round cheeks. They ran right past me like I was a lamp post and threw themselves at the top of the steps.

At Maria.

"Mommy! Mommy, you said you'd come back fast!"

Maria bent down and caught them, laughing, all three at once. The girl wrapped her arms around Maria's neck. One boy grabbed her dress. The other boy did not hug her. He stood a little to the side and looked at me over Maria's shoulder, with big serious eyes that did not blink.

Something in my chest went tight and strange. I did not know why. I did not know these children. But I could not stop looking at them.

They had Damien's face. All three of them. The same dark brows. The same straight nose. The girl had different eyes, though. Big and dark and soft. I stared at those eyes, and for one second, something moved at the very back of my head. Like a door I could not see had creaked open just a little.

Then it shut again.

A woman came hurrying out of the house behind them. Middle-aged, plump, soft brown hair tied in a bun, a cardigan buttoned wrong like she had dressed in a rush.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she said to Damien. "They heard the car. I couldn't hold them."

"It's fine, Grace," Damien said.

Grace bent to gather the children. "Come on, my loves. Bath time. Your daddy is tired."

The girl did not want to let go of Maria. Maria kissed her on the head and gently pushed her toward Grace. "Go on, sweet girl. I'll come read to you later."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Grace took the girl's hand and the first boy's hand. The quiet boy followed on his own. At the door, Grace stopped and looked back at me. Just for a moment. It was not a cold look, not like the others. It was a strange look. Heavy. Like she wanted to say something and was pushing it down very hard.

Then she took the children inside, and they were gone.

I stood at the bottom of the steps with my bag held against me. My mouth was dry.

"Whose children are those?" I asked.

Nobody answered me.

Maria came down two steps, smiling. Not at me. At Damien. She walked right past me, so close her shoulder almost brushed mine, and stopped in front of him.

"You look tired," she said softly. "Was the drive bad?"

"It was fine."

"Did you eat anything today? I know you didn't. You never do when you're stressed." She reached up and took the jacket that was folded over his arm. He let her. He did not even look down. It was like his hands already knew she would do it, because she had done it a hundred times before.

"How was the meeting with the Russos?" she asked. "Did they agree?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly is good. Mostly is better than last time." She laughed a little. He did not laugh, but something in his face got easier. Softer. Just a small amount. Like she was a warm room he was walking into after being out in the cold.

I watched them and felt sick.

This was how a wife talked. How a wife stood. How a wife took her husband's jacket and asked about his day and knew he had not eaten. It was all so easy between them. So normal. And I was standing three steps away like a stranger at a bus stop.

Maybe I was.

"Come inside," Maria said to him. "Your coffee's getting cold."

They walked up the steps together. I followed them, because I did not know what else to do.

The front hall was huge. White marble floor, so shiny I could see myself in it. A wide staircase curving up to the second floor. A big glass light hanging from the ceiling, the kind with a thousand little crystals. There were fresh flowers on a round table in the middle of the hall. White lilies. Their smell was so strong it made my head hurt.

And there were people. More people than I expected.

Two young maids in gray dresses stood near the stairs. An older man in a black vest stood by a door on the left. A cook in a white apron peeked out from somewhere at the back. They had all come out, like they had been waiting.

When Maria walked in, they smiled.

Real smiles. Warm ones. One of the maids actually waved at her a little, quick, like a friend.

"Welcome back, Miss Maria."

"Good evening, Miss Maria."

"The children missed you, Miss Maria."

Then their eyes moved to me.

And the smiles went away.

Not all at once. Not in a rude way. They just faded, the way a light fades when a cloud goes over the sun. The maids looked down at the floor. The man in the vest stood a little straighter. The cook went back behind her door.

Nobody said welcome back to me.

Nobody said my name at all.

I held my bag tighter. My face felt hot. I did not know these people. I did not know what I had done to them. But they knew. They all knew. I could see it in how they did not look at me. It was like I had walked into a room where everyone had heard a very bad story, and I was the main character, and I was the only one who did not know how it went.

Luca came in through the front door behind us. He had been talking to one of the guards outside. He stopped when he saw me standing in the middle of the hall, and for a second he just looked.