setting it down, and handing me the bowl as he set the ankle shackle back into place, giving me a regretful glance as he did so.
"It's okay," I assured him, nodding. He didn't need to feel guilty.
I was going to get myself out of this.
Like I had needed to get myself out of everything else in my life.
In the end, it always came back to me.
If I could single-handedly keep the bakery from bankruptcy, if I could keep my father from getting his kneecaps busted, if I could escape kidnappers, if I could pick up a gun and take the life of my own father, I could get myself free.
This time for good.
My heart would crush at leaving the bakery behind, knowing that if I was gone, the bank would eventually have to take it. And knowing the neighborhood, it would get turned into some truly tragic trendy coffee place with no such thing as old charm, homemade treats, or friendly service from people who genuinely took pride in their work, in the community.
My grandfather would understand given the situation.
Maybe someday, in a new city, far outside the reach of Arturo Costa, I could start again. Maybe I could open a new bakery, name it after my grandfather. No, I didn't have the leather-bound recipe book in his handwriting anymore, but I had the recipes memorized, had them saved in my email in case something ever happened to the original.
It was not the same.
But it was something.
It would still honor his memory.
And it was something positive to look forward to after all this negativity, all this cold, all this uncertainty, all this pain—both old and new.
I waited until Chris looked away, spitting my cuff key into my hand, tucking it under my thigh, then setting to work on the pasta as best I could with the awkward cuffs in the way.
When I finished, he took the bowl, disappearing while I finished my coffee, took one sip of the water, not wanting to put too many fluids in if I didn't know when my next bathroom break might be.
"I'll keep this with me outside the door. You can just call me if you need a sip. Eventually, Arturo is going to remember you need to eat, drink, and use the bathroom. He's not new at this. He's just..." he trailed off, waving his hand.
"Okay," I agreed, nodding, not sure if that filled me with a little hope, or a lot of dread. "Thank you again."
"He'd want it," Chris said, looking grim, making my stomach clench.
I wanted to ask.
If he knew anything, if he'd heard anything.
But, somehow, I also didn't want to know.
It was better not to know.
At least until I was far away from all of this.
Because I wasn't sure that if I learned he'd survived, I would still be able to do it. Pack up. Run off. Start over.
I was pretty sure a part of me would need to see him, would feel indebted to him, would maybe even want to stay with him, get that warm feeling back I'd gotten in a dream.
It was ridiculous. On a rational level, I understood that. But there was no denying the desire was there either.
I had no one left in the world.
If I had him, somehow, I think that would supersede the more rational side of me.
No one wanted to be wholly alone in the world. Even if all he would ever be was a person who had known what I had been through, that would be something, someone, more than I had now.
But I knew the smartest thing to do was run.
The only thing to do was run.
So it was better not to know.
At least that was what I spent the next several hours trying to convince myself of between little snippets of boredom-induced sleep while the house was quiet.
I think I heard it the second Arturo's feet hit the floorboards, though. I knew I heard the water running down the pipes as he brushed his teeth. I heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way into the kitchen. I heard the bleep of the coffee pot, the sound of the fridge opening and shutting.
I heard him move over toward the top of the stairs, felt my breath catch in my chest.
"Who is down there?"
"Chris," Chris answered, and I couldn't imagine how tired he must have been. I had been catching little cap naps on and off. I had a feeling he didn't.
"Bring her up to use the