Like hell it will.
Mario walks into a room adjacent to the office area with a kettle and a few cabinets, and he starts making some tea. I can’t look around, though, as he’s constantly got his eyes on me.
As he brings back a single cup of tea, he momentarily pauses to grab a tissue, into which he coughs several times in a way that strikes me as abnormal. It’s not the kind of cough you have when you’re sick with a common cold. It sounds more like the cough of a dying man. It makes me shiver.
“Sorry,” he muses, tucking the tissue back into his pocket. But not before I’ve had a glance and see red splatters of blood on it. “I’ve not been well lately. As they say, cancer is a bitch.”
I don’t know whether to laugh at what I’m pretty sure is a joke or to reach out and comfort him. I definitely didn’t expect a bitter joke like that to come from such a friendly old man. Maybe his frail appearance is more deceptive than I realized.
“I … I’m sorry,” I offer, not knowing what to say. I mean, I don’t know the man … but cancer? That’s hard to deal with.
“Oh, don’t be. I’ve known for a long time. Recently, it’s gotten a little worse, that’s all.” He makes it sound as if it’s no big deal. “It’s why I’m resigned to doing housework instead. Beats going out.”
He places the tea on a table and beckons me to sit down on the chair in front of it. “Sit, sit,” he urges. “This tea is a special concoction that will help with your nausea and the aftereffects of the drugs.”
I nod and take a seat. “Thanks.” But I just stare at the tea.
“It’s not poisonous if that’s what you’re thinking.” Mario lets out a chuckle. “Do you think I have a death wish?”
Of course. Marcello would probably kill him if he found out Mario killed his beloved “kitten.”
The man leans over the table, clutching his back. “I have to go to the restroom for a second, if you’ll excuse me.”
He limps off into a room at the end of the office, where he’s completely out of sight. When the door is locked, I immediately get up and start snooping. Might as well while I’m stuck here. I don’t know how much time I have, but I have to be quick. Maybe I can find something in here to use to further my case.
Jumping up from my chair, I bolt to the desk. I open a bunch of drawers, but the middle one is locked. In the first drawer is a pencil pouch with a small box of paper clips in it. I pick up one of them and stuff it into the locked drawer, using my lock-picking skills I learned from HIIT Hard Tactical to work it open.
Once I have it open, I only see a bunch of folders inside. Two names are printed on the front: Molly and Frank Fitzgerald.
My parents.
Adrenaline spikes through my veins, and my breath hitches in my throat.
How do they know who my parents are? And are they, Marcello and Mario, responsible for my parents’ death?
Fuck.
I have to read this, but the moment I fish it out, the bathroom door unlocks.
Shit, Mario!
I almost forgot about him.
I quickly shut the drawer again and throw the paper clip in the trash next to the desk. As I rush back to the chair and sit down, Mario returns. I’m still breathing loudly, and my hair is a complete mess. He pauses and looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“Is something the matter?” he asks.
“No, no, I was just shocked by how amazing this tea is,” I lie, and I pick up the cup and take a sip. It’s awful, like completely horrifying to swallow as it tastes like a weird mix of ginger and garlic and several other herbs, but still, I try my best to make it look like I’m enjoying it.
The old man smiles. “Good. I’d hoped it’d give you some relief.”
Phew, I’m glad he didn’t see through my lie, or I probably would’ve been in some deep shit. Still, I’m glad I made the move. I’m much closer to answers now than I’ve ever been. A first clue that I so desperately needed to prove to myself I’m not insane.
That house fire was not an accident, and someone tried to murder them.
Maybe even me, too, if it wasn’t for that mysterious stranger saving me.
I know in my heart it wasn’t a dream. He was really there to pull me out. I just wish he could’ve done the same thing for my parents, and that I could’ve seen more of him than just the tattoos on his back.
“Please forgive Marcello for having to drug you in order to bring you here. He … has trouble expressing himself properly and asking nicely,” Mario suddenly says, sighing afterward.