He runs a hand through his hair, looking young in the rearview. “I don’t want to think about that,” he says.
“You have to—”
“Do you remember when I played you that Mozart piece? You were painting me as I played it, do you remember? And you said I could be a real good pianist, like, concert-level, if I just put the time in. I still have that painting, framed and everything. You remember, don’t you?”
I smile, feeing queasy. “Yes, Benjy, I remember that.”
He giggles distractedly. The car is slowing down. My belly gets tight, as though my unborn child is curling up to protect itself. “I just want you to know, sis, whatever happens, I don’t blame you for Mom dying. I always thought that was sort of, y’know, unfair.”
The car pulls to a stop. Benjy’s face contorts and hardens. He’s all business as he orders his men to drag me from the car.
They carry me through a small section of woods toward a warehouse. Their eyesight is better than mine, though, because all I can make out is the shadowy outlines of trees. I think about Carlo standing out there—my shadow. I want to break out of these zip-ties and run after him and make him real. It really is crazy how situations like this make petty arguments seem, well, petty.
I love him. He loves me. If I know two things with absolute certainty, it’s that. Maybe we lost our way at some point. Maybe—no, not maybe, definitely—I was wrong to lie to him. He was wrong to kidnap me in the first place. There’s plenty of blame to go around. But as they carry me into the middle of a large room to a metal chair, I know that I’d give anything to have my Carlo back.
I don’t try to squirm out of their grip because I don’t want to hurt the baby and, anyway, what good would it do, to be flopping around like a fish out of water? I would just die tired.
They tie me to the chair and leave me. I’m not sure for how long. Time gets a bit jagged. The room is massive and empty, the floor bare stone, the walls dark and imposing.
Finally, there’s a creaking noise from across the room. I know it’s Dad just by his footsteps, slow and controlled. His silhouette leans down and flicks a switch. Floodlights snap on, forcing me to close my eyes as painful light darts into my brain. When I open them, Dad is standing there.
He’s short and round, red-faced and bald, with an oddly youthful face and my same bright green eyes. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and chunky black boots, a yellow sports jacket zipped right up to the chin and pulled back at the forearm.
He gestures with the stump where his hand once was.
“Getting a good look at your handiwork?” he asks.
Benjy walks in behind him, looking shifty, trailed by about a dozen Irishmen. Some of them are smoking. Others are casually scrolling through their phones. None of them glance at me as they walk to a spot in the corner. I was wrong. The room isn’t empty. There’s a poker table and a couch on the far wall.
Benjy stops just short of Dad’s shoulder, glancing at him and then me. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.
Dad laughs. “Short for words, eh? I guess there’s a first time for everything. Let me tell you something, then. This is your fault. Where you’re sitting right now, all the things that are gonna happen to you—you only have yourself to blame for it. Do you have any idea the mess you put me in, Colleen, when you ran out on Jorge? Jesus, fucking Mary, and Joseph, you put me in a bind there. Those guys don’t fuck around.”
I look to Benjy, blinking back tears. I hate this. I feel like I’m becoming Colleen again. But that can’t be right, can it? I went out in the world, alone. I made a new life for myself. I made friends, was useful, fell in love. I got pregnant. I’m my own person.
I’m not Colleen. I’m Hazel.
If it was just that, I could take it. But my baby—what he’s going to do to my perfect, unborn baby—and to Carlo, I can’t take that. This is clearly a trap for Carlo. And I know he’ll come. Whatever has happened between us, he won’t leave