Masked Innocence

Thirty-Four

When I came downstairs, clean, towel-dried and dressed in a yellow skirt and white tank, Brad sat in the kitchen. His head was in his hands and he looked up at my approach. “I need to talk to you. Sit down.”

Unsure of what was coming, I grabbed an apple from the fruit basket and sat down at the large teak table, sitting cross-legged in the seat next to him.

“We need to talk about what happened last night, so you are aware of your situation, but first I need to know what you overheard Broward say, the conversation that you spoke to the police about.”

I was halfway through a big apple bite when he spoke, and I froze, the unexpected words catching me off guard. I finished the bite, chewing loudly and buying myself some time. Holy. Shit.

He continued, keeping his eyes on mine. “Since you haven’t mentioned this to me already, I’m assuming it’s because you recognized the danger that exists in that knowledge. Unfortunately, it is too late to avoid that. The implicated parties are aware of your involvement. They know who you are and where you live. They came to your home last night, presumably to kill you.”

I swallowed, a jagged piece of the fruit getting painfully stuck in my throat, my mind trying frantically to catch up with this information. “Last night. The break-in...or whatever that was.” I stopped, my mind following the evening’s events, Brad’s call, us leaving the house. “So...what happened?”

He frowned at me, his brow lined. “You got fucking lucky. I was unarmed and in the parking lot when I saw the man. By some incredible twist of fate, I knew the son of a bitch.”

“You knew him?” I stood, gripping the nearest chair, and turned to stare at Brad, my frantic eyes meeting his calm ones.

“Yes.”

I tilted my head, trying to process the billion thoughts that were fighting each other for my attention. “I’m sorry—how did you know about what I told the police?”

“The man, last night. He told me that the reason he was there, why he had been sent, was whatever you told the police.”

The police...I frowned at that information. “So, what—you just said ‘please go away’ and he did?” My voice arched and I raised my brow at him, unconvinced.

He shifted uncomfortably. “He was sent by the Magiano family. I have some connections to his boss. I delayed him.”

Magiano family. My worst fears, realized. “Delayed him. So he’s going to come back another time and kill me. Shouldn’t we be in a police station right now!” I released the chair and spun, pacing a short path in front of the table.

He laughed, a bitter, short sound. “Sure. Going to the cops worked so well for you so far. Julia, whoever you spoke to at the police station, they are just one cop on a lengthy list of dirtbags. The police cannot, or will not, protect you.” His eyes met mine, a hard stare with an edge of despair. Just enough despair to send me onto another level of panic.

“Shit! Then what? I wait around to get whacked?” My heart felt as if it were going to come out of my chest and I stopped pacing, leaning on the table and focusing on breathing. Magiano. The biggest crime family within a thousand miles. What the fuck was I thinking?

He stood, his strong hands gripping my shoulder and turning me to face him. I looked up, into his face, stress lining the beautiful lines of it. “Julia. Calm down. I have connections. Let me find out how fucked we are. Go to Martha’s. Tell her something has happened, and you need to stay up there for a bit. I’ll call my contact at the police, then check on a few things, see what I can find out.”

“Why do I need to go to Martha’s? Can’t I just stay here?”

His hand fell from my shoulder and he studied me with his eyes. “I just dropped a whole lot on you. I’d rather you not be alone, have someone to talk to if need be.”

“In case I flip the fuck out?”

His mouth twitched, and he chuckled once before the hard look returned, taking over his face. “Yeah. Or in case you decide to run. Which, I can tell you right now, is a bad idea. The safest place for you right now is on my property.” The authoritative tone, one that would normally cause my hands to clench and my voice to rise, was somehow comforting, and I leaned on its strength. I dreaded the thought of spending any time with Martha, but I nodded, my eyes searching his, looking for reassurance, confidence. I found only grim determination and steely resolve.

“Fine,” I said, turning on my heel and throwing open the back door. I pounded up the stairs to her carriage house apartment, my shoes making a racket on her iron stairs, my panic growing with every step I climbed. She opened the door with an irritated expression before I even knocked, a small thermos bag in her hand and her purse over her shoulder. Her mouth was open, a smart-ass comment ready, when she saw my face. She paused, her eyes narrowing; then she opened the door wider.

“Aw, hell,” she said, her big shoulders slumping and her purse hitting the floor with a thud. “Let me guess, that man got himself in trouble.” She gestured with a hand. “Come on in.”

Martha’s apartment consisted of a small living room, a galley kitchen and two bedrooms. The furniture was functional, the space tidy and sparkling clean. I looked around but saw no family photos, nothing to give me a sense of the woman in front of me. She moved past, closing the bedroom doors with a look that told me to mind my own business, then ushered me to the couch.

She sat across from me in silence, the two of us studying each other for a moment. Her expression was wary, examining me with a look that resembled motherly concern. She pursed her lips and then spoke.

“You eaten?”

The words were so unexpected that I laughed, a welcome emotion. My eyes threatened to water and I blinked back the tears, shaking my head at her. She stood, briskly moving to the kitchen, having bacon and eggs sizzling in minutes. I leaned back on the couch, trying to process my current situation. My mind meandered down different paths, all which ended at similar dead ends—me, deceased, my funeral sparsely attended. Running seemed to be the best course of action.

I turned, wanting something, anything to distract me. Martha stood at the stove, flipping bacon. She seemed relaxed, a calming presence in my new state of anxiety. “Have you worked for Brad long?” I asked. Silently, she went to the fridge, bending over and pulling out a carton of orange juice. I almost repeated the question, but she answered while pouring us both a glass.

“Honey, I been working for Brad since he was twenty-six, but I’ve known the boy since he was a teenager. I worked for his father before him.” She brought the two glasses to the coffee table and slid one to me, setting the other in front of a recliner. I pushed off the blanket and stood, following her to the kitchen. She fixed two plates, passing me one, and we took our food back to the living room, sitting back down. It was weird to be sitting this close to Martha, in her apartment. She was a lot less scary up here, but that was probably thanks to my meek demeanor. The other morning I had been all bitchy attitude. Now I was a scared Chihuahua. A Chihuahua that was incredibly grateful for her kindness, especially given our volatile history.

“Do you like working here?”

She smiled, tilting her head at me, her full face smooth, impossibly ageless. “Oh yes. Me and Brad have worked ourselves into a comfortable life. It takes time, for two people to find their place, and we’ve gotten so we understand each other just fine. I give him his privacy and he gives me my space.”

“Have you ever been married?” I got up and grabbed the orange juice, pouring more for both of us.

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m a loner, Julia. Besides, Brad handles any heavy lifting or odd jobs around the house, and that is enough to keep me from missing a man around.” She took a bite of bacon and sat back, rocking. “So. What’s our boy done now?”

I toyed with my eggs, thinking about how to answer the question, not knowing what information to give. She watched me, clasping her hands on her large stomach, her head tilted, face calm. “I’ve been in Brad’s life a long time, Julia. There was a reason I left his daddy. I believed in Brad, believed in the good in his soul. I saw a lot of things at his daddy’s house, kept a lot of secrets for that family. Secrets I’ll be taking with me to the grave.” She nodded at me, a stern brow arched, and continued her rocking.

Something about the way she spoke made me think that the secrets she kept might be of the caliber of this. And I needed to talk to someone, needed to unload. I took a sip of orange juice and met her unmoving gaze. “Brad hasn’t done anything. It was something I did.”

“You? You have a lot of stress on your face for something you did. What, you fail a midterm or something?”

I laughed, setting my juice down on the coffee table, shocked at the sudden urge I had to burst into tears. I swallowed hard. “No. I was snooping, listening to something I shouldn’t have—and then Brad’s partner, my boss, was killed. Now the people who killed him are after me.” My voice broke on the last sentence, and I tightened my eyes, determined to hold my emotions in check.

She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. “Oh Lordy,” she said, shaking her head. “And let me guess, he’s going to try and save you.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He wants me to stay up here for a bit. You think I’m in danger right now?”

She, for some reason, found this inexplicably funny. “Up here? Lord no. No one is gonna harm you on this property, I can assure you of that. This is sacred ground, as far as most of the criminals in town are concerned.”

We sat in silence for a minute, me trying to pick up the pieces of what she had said. “What do you mean?”

She exhaled, pushing the arms of the chair, and stood, tottering over to the kitchen and running water into the sink. She spoke over her shoulder, without looking at me. “Julia, I know you think you and Bradley are going to skip off into the sunset, and be together forever, but what you don’t get is that every woman who’s walked into my kitchen during the last five years has thought the same thing, has had the same stars in their eyes. And he has left each one of them before they get too close, before they get any piece of his heart. And as good as he protects his heart—he protects his secrets even better. And that man has a whole heaping lot of secrets.” She turned, a dishrag in hand, and wiped her palms, looking dead in my eyes.

“And death threat or not, I’m not sharing any of his secrets with you. It ain’t my place. I’m sorry, but some things you got to get from him, or go without knowing.” She stared at me, silence between us; then she turned and started washing dishes.

I sank my head back on the soft couch. After a few minutes she wandered over and clicked on the small TV set on a side table, flipping through the stations till she found the one she wanted. On the small screen a preacher stood at a pulpit, gesturing wildly and shouting words of redemption and praise. I watched as she settled into her chair, pulling an afghan over her legs.

Sitting in her cozy living room made me think of home, and my parents. I stood, pulled out my cell and glanced at Martha. “I need to call my mom,” I said softly, over the words of a sermon.

“You can use my guest room, if you’d like,” she said, nodding with her head to a closed door and preparing to hoist herself to her feet.

“You sit,” I whispered, moving around the couch and heading for the room. “Thanks.” I dialed as I walked, quietly opening the door and pressing Send before I stepped inside.

For a woman who had initially seemed inhospitable, she had certainly made her guest room comfortable, with a recliner, neatly made twin bed and thoughtful items placed around the room. I curled up in the chair and listened to the phone ring in my ear.

TO SAY THAT I am an independent daughter would be putting it nicely. In actuality, I pretty much walked across the graduation stage, accepted my high school diploma, then left town in a cloud of dust, happy to never look back, adios familial responsibilities and obligations. That might be a bit of a dramatization, but not by too much. And now, after three years away from home, college had become the justification of the bridge between my parents and me.

When I was a child, my mother blamed the emotional distance on my intelligence. She referred to me as an “old soul,” blaming our lack of connection on my mature, wise-beyond-my-years outlook. In my teens, our distance was blamed on hormones, my friends or my heavy academic schedule. It’s not that she and I fought; we just didn’t speak, at least not about anything emotionally fulfilling. We were two opposite souls, coexisting in a home with my wonderful father, who robotically went about his day while trying his best to not irritate my mother.

A death threat seemed like a valid reason to break the silence. I’d spent the first three years of college acclimating my mother to accept occasional calls as normal college student behavior. Initially, our lifeless conversations occurred weekly, then biweekly, then monthly. It had been a while since I had called home, longer than usual. I leaned back in the chair, trying to think of the last time we had spoken. It had been over two months, the extended silence my doing. I hadn’t yet figured out how to break the news to her that I had ended my engagement. Mother had adored Luke, my ex-fiancé, and would not take our breakup well. So I had handled it as immaturely as possible, by simply avoiding the conversation.

The ringing stopped and voice mail picked up. I frowned, wondering what to say, then left a generic message, asking them to call me back.