he met with a mobster. You basically said that.”
She fusses with a brown workout towel slung over her shoulder. “You don’t need to worry about that. Your father knows what he’s doing.”
I’m not sure that’s really a comfort when what he’s doing is incredibly illegal—not to mention unethical. “Then where did he get those diamonds?”
Her eyes turn dark. “Don’t start, Emily.”
“I’m not lying. There must be a hundred diamonds inside that box. I saw them.”
“You don’t want to go down this path again.”
That much we can agree on. Nothing about this will end well for me. “It doesn’t worry you that there’s that kind of money just sitting in the house?”
“I’m not worried because there aren’t any diamonds.”
Tears prick my eyes. I should be used to this by now. Being called a liar. Made to question my own eyes. It’s been like this for ten long years. People with advanced degrees already dismissed anything I say with their diagnosis, so why do I even bother talking?
Why even bother telling the truth?
The new gardener has been in the house. Not once. Twice.
Mom would freak out if she knew, despite what she says about the diamonds. At a minimum he would be fired. If not worse. What if she told the mobster that Niko had been trying to steal them? I keep my mouth shut as my mother goes downstairs. I can hear the faint rumble of the garage door open and then close.
I don’t even want to know. That’s what I tell myself. She’s right about one thing. Wherever this leads—with me claiming something about Daddy, with more doctors and needles and electric shock therapy, with pain and tears. It’s not worth it.
At least until I hear a loud whooshing sound from outside.
I peek out the window to see someone power washing the far wall with a machine. Up and down in neat lines that turn the brick from light to dark. That someone wears a black T-shirt and acid washed jeans. And muddy work boots I would recognize anywhere—even from half an acre across and two stories up.
For a moment I imagine storming across the lawn and confronting him. I could demand to know what he was doing in the house—and don’t tell me you were getting a drink, I’d tell him.
And he would deny everything.
I remember how easily he turned the tables on me yesterday. All the things he said about me being his employer, as if I was in charge. The whole time he was the one controlling me, seducing me so I wouldn’t see what he was doing.
Which means I need the same kind of strategic stealth.
I head into my closet and pull out a bikini with tags on it. I think Mom paid something outrageous at Nordstrom’s the day I turned eighteen. Maybe it was supposed to make up for not being around when I got my period, having the maid show me how a pad worked. I didn’t have any interest in the tiny straps when I got it, but it’s just right for what I need now.
I strip down and put on the bikini, wincing at the scrape of plastic tags on my bare skin, at the tight elastic barely holding me in. The tags are easy enough to yank off. Meanwhile the elastic strap nestles in my butt with disturbing intimacy.
Two little triangles cover my breasts. And one down below.
The towel that had felt so revealing yesterday now seems like an exercise in modesty. I can’t really imagine going out like this, but I want to. For reasons that have nothing to do with stealth or escape. I want to see what Niko’s expression will be when he sees this bikini.
I grab a towel and a half-empty bottle of sunscreen before heading outside.
Sunlight hits soft, private skin for the first time. I shiver despite the warmth. Crossing the patio I settle into one of the reclining deck chairs beside the pool. Throw my hair over my shoulder. Somewhat discreetly adjust the band of my bikini top so it covers me.
The entire time, Niko continues to power wash. He doesn’t even look over.
Well, I tell myself reasonably, he probably didn’t hear me. That machine is pretty loud.
Disappointment pulls a loud sigh out of me.
Right then, in the space of seconds as breath leaves my mouth, Niko glances back at me. A moment later he’s looking back at his work, having not even given me a second look—but he doesn’t have to. It’s enough. Enough