into a parking space on the main road through town, near a series of older and well-kept brick buildings. “Yes. If you went to work with your Uncle Gino, then you’d be free to date Nicolo. Prosecuting criminals, seeing the bad side of life, can’t be good for your spirit. It certainly isn’t good for my piece of mind, which is rapidly dwindling.”
Right. My mom was the sharpest person in any room every time. I bit my lip. From my first day of law school, my mom had tried to get me to work with Uncle Gino, who, as far as I could trace, was a seventh cousin three times removed on my dad’s side of the family. Gino was about sixty years old, did more transactional law than litigation, and thought a fax machine was too new-fangled to deal with. “I am not going to work for Gino,” I said for the thousandth time. At least.
“Just think about it.” She craned her head to look out the front window at the nearest building. “Wanda is on the third floor. There’s a public restroom on the first floor where you can wash off your hands.”
I’d forgotten about the blood. A chill skittered down my back faster than a firefly trapped in a T-shirt, which happened all too often while camping. How had I forgotten the blood, even for a second? I swallowed and opened the door, stepping out into the breezy dusk. “All right. I can catch a ride home.”
“Don’t be silly. Tessa is working, and I’ll go check on her. If you’re not interested in Nicolo, then maybe she should see if he has eaten dinner.” She started the car again.
I sighed and shut the door. Tess worked as a waitress at Smiley’s Diner, just down the street, and she’d probably love to take Nick a steak sandwich. Turning, I made my way into the building, which smelled like furniture polish over dusty wood. It took several pumps of gritty soap to get rid of the blood, and I tried not to watch the red swirl down the drain of the old porcelain sink. Scot’s blood. My stomach lurched and I coughed down bile.
After drying my hands, I made my way up the wide and squeaky steps to the third floor, which held three offices, all with closed doors. The doors were worn oak with square windows made of frosted glass, and not one had a sign. Light illuminated the window of the far-left door, so I headed that way and knocked, poking my head in. “Dr. Versaccio?”
A woman wearing dusty jeans and flannel looked up from across a smattering of boxes across the narrow wooden slats of the floor. She stood near a cushion top green built-in desk by the window. Her black hair was swept up in a messy bun, her wire-rimmed glasses were askew, and her lipstick half chewed off. “Hello?” She didn’t sound like she’d been expecting anybody.
I stepped inside. “I’m sorry. I’m Anna Albertini, and my mom…”
Wanda sighed and dusted off her hands. “My grandma, also.” She wiped a smudge of dirt on her cheek and spread it nearly to her eye, making her look like a boxer after a rough fight. “I said I’d love to see you next week.”
I forced a smile. “That sounds better, anyway.” I slowly edged backward in case a sudden movement changed her mind.
Her gaze sharpened. She looked younger than what had to be mid-thirties, and she had that ‘just got divorced and in shape and I’m feeling good’ look that was universal. “Well. I could use some company. Especially family.” Reaching down past a box, she drew out two Wallace Brewery Pale Ales. “Have a beer with me?”
My throat was suddenly parched but my suspicions up.
She gestured me toward her with one of the bottles, which had dew drops sliding down to the floor. It was fresh, probably bought just a few hours before. “You’re going to talk to me anyway, and we both know it, so why not do it over a beer?”
That was fair. I shut the door and wound around boxes to accept the brew before looking around.
She kicked a box my way. “There are books in there. You won’t fall through.” She leaned over and dragged an even bigger box close and sat, her sigh full of relief.
I twisted my cap off and took a seat, wincing as my ankle protested. I leaned down and readjusted the bandage.