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The following morning, Kate awakened to the sound of a garbage truck driving past the house.
What day was it? Tuesday? Garbage day?
She’d missed it again, two weeks in a row.
Her mind and body felt groggy with fatigue. Her sleepy eyes refused to take in the sunny morning. Kate was still shaken up about her dream—Renzo trying to tell her it was Sal who shot them. She couldn’t get it out of her head.
As she pulled herself up from her restless slumber, she was startled by an inexplicable sensation. She paused, frozen. For the briefest of moments, she thought she’d felt Marco—his presence—almost as if his bare arm had brushed across hers.
Was he trying to talk to her? Was he haunting her?
She both loved and hated it. Heavenly, yet agonizing. She’d felt similar sensations from Marco before, but so far, nothing from Renzo. She longed for a sign from him, as well. She knew these visits weren’t real, but they helped her get through the toughest days.
She let out a long sigh.
Renzo.
She walked to his room, flipped on the light, and sat on his bed. She missed him so much she sometimes thought it might kill her. His furrowed brow; his warm smile; his shy giggles; the way he was always hugging everyone. So loving. She missed all of his playful noises. His humming, his talking with his friends in his room, or out on the porch. His constant drumming on the countertops and any table he could find. It was as if the music had died with him.
She didn’t stay in his room for long. It was too painful. She switched off the light and returned to her bedroom. Her thoughts moved to Sal. She hated that his awful face came into view whenever she thought of Marco and Renzo. The simmering rage returned, burning in her belly. He was the shooter. She was convinced of it.
She walked to the closet and stared at its doors.
The gun.
She moved slowly to the folding doors and pushed them apart. The tan canvas bag was back in the corner where she’d put it, under the big box. She could see it sticking out.
She went to her knees, sitting back on her haunches. Pausing, she blew a breath of air upward before moving in. She reached back and dragged the heavy box toward her. She then dug deep into the bag for the pistol.
She’d never held a gun before. Its weight felt daunting. Powerful. She wiggled into a seated position and stared down at the weapon. Feeling its heft. Its might. In her home. And now, in her hand. The steel barrel felt cool to the touch. She was terrified she might do something wrong to make it go off, yet ... fascinated. This could be useful.
Then, unexpectedly, she envisioned herself pulling the trigger, the bullet exploding into a face that looked like both Eddie and Sal.
The vision startled her. She held her chest and collected her breath as the realization of the change happening inside her took hold. She put the gun back, tucking it away, deep into the bag. She put the heavy box of magazines on top of it and shoved it all into the corner. She stood and stepped back, staring at the inside of her closet before closing the doors and leaving the room.
She spent the rest of the day in a fog. As evening fell, she ate a light meal and settled in on the sofa, the TV on, the sound down low. She stared at the screen, but her thoughts were on the gun.
A movie on TV caught her attention. A cop was holding a gun and moving slowly, cautiously up a set of stairs. She watched his use of the weapon with keen interest.
When the movie ended, she climbed upstairs and into bed. Sleep eluded her. She stared at the ceiling, thinking about Eddie. About his restaurant. The restaurant that she helped him get. About his recent creepy visit. His crew. Her mind was a mixed mess of intrigue, fear, depression and fatigue.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep.
It was time to get back out there. Time to continue her surveillance. Now, it wouldn’t be only Eddie she was following and watching, but Sal, too.
