“Why?”
“Because it’s a remnant of something I’d rather forget. Are you going to answer my question?”
Right. His question. What did he do? He being Tony.
I inhale and then let out a long sigh. I like this man. I have no reason to trust him, yet I feel I can. He’s interested in me, but he’s done nothing more than kiss me. He hasn’t tried to get me into bed, and he hasn’t bothered me unless I ask him to.
I’ve been dying to tell someone my troubles. Sure, I can talk to Macy, but that’s in a purely professional setting. There’s Zee, but she has a new baby, and I need to give her some space.
There’s Lily, but she’s been through the same thing or worse than I have. And Aspen, but if she’s not coming to group, she’s not up for any talking.
No. I need a neutral third party.
Maybe Luke can be that person.
I open my mouth, but the server arrives with our pancakes. I catch a whiff of the maple and butter of Luke’s before the server sets down the blueberry mountain in front of me.
“Wow,” I say, my eyes widening.
“Now that’s a pancake palace,” Luke says with a grin.
I inhale. Luke’s butter and maple fades to black as the fruity and creamy scent of this blueberry extravaganza infuses my senses.
And for the first time since I got to Manhattan, I actually feel hungry.
I take a drink of coffee and then dig in. The flavors explode across my tongue, so perfectly blueberry. For a moment I feel like Violet Beauregarde from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Surely this will turn me blue, it’s so blueberry.
“Good?” Luke asks.
All I can do is nod, my mouth is so full of berries and cream.
He grins and takes a bite of his own pancakes. “Purist or not, that looks like paradise on a plate.”
I swallow. “It is.”
“So…” He cuts another bite of pancake. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”
Right. What did he do? That was the question.
I swallow my second bite of pancake. “My cousin, Tony DeCarlo—”
Luke stops his fork in midair. “DeCarlo? Anthony DeCarlo?”
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my forehead. “I told you his name was Tony.”
“Right, but you didn’t mention his last name until now.”
“So?”
“So…nothing.”
“O…kay.”
Weird. Does Luke know Tony? How could he? He said he grew up in LA, and Tony’s never been out of Brooklyn—at least not that I know of—and he’s been incarcerated for nearly ten years.
“So this Tony DeCarlo did something…” Luke begins.
“Yeah. We used to be close when we were kids, but I stopped going to Brooklyn once I hit high school, until the summer after I graduated. Aunt Agnes invited me out, and since I was going to begin college at Columbia in the fall anyway, I thought it would be nice to visit.”
Luke nods, taking another bite of his pancakes. “You went to Columbia?”
I never got there, but that will only invite another question. I’m in, now. I’m going to tell him what happened. At least a little of what happened. I just won’t tell him it took ten years of my life.
“I get there, to Brooklyn, and my cousins hardly give me the time of day. They were seventeen and sixteen at the time. I was eighteen. Anyway, after a day of ignoring me, they invite me to go to a movie with them one evening. I’m thrilled to have their attention, so I jump at the chance.”
“What movie did you see?”
“I… I didn’t see a movie.”
“Oh?” He narrows his eyes.
“I honestly don’t know what happened. I think someone injected me with something.” My fingers trail to my neck—to that place they absently go when I recount this story.
Luke’s cheeks redden. “Then what?” His tone is…different. Angry? Maybe.
“Then nothing. Until I woke up in a concrete room. It was underground somewhere or it was built without any windows.
“Your cousin fucking drugged you and locked you up?”
“That’s what I want to find out, Luke. That’s why I have to see Tony. I never saw him or Jared again after that. I saw…other people.”
“Who?”
How much do I divulge? The Wolfes kept the story out of the mainstream media for the women’s sake, including me. Luke probably doesn’t know anything. If I tell him, he’ll walk away from me.
I can’t risk that.
I need a friend now.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“I don’t remember anything after that.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Katelyn…”
“Please. Don’t.”
He brushes his finger over my forearm. My hair stands on end. Just a minor touch sends a sizzle through me.
“You can trust me.”
“Trust isn’t the issue.”
“Then what is it?”
26
Luke
Anthony DeCarlo.
It can’t be. It just can’t.
The Anthony DeCarlo I know is a prison informant somewhere in New York. I never knew where.
Anthony DeCarlo isn’t an uncommon name, though, and Italian New Yorkers are a dime a dozen. It can’t possibly be the same man.