Yeah, that’s right, creep. I have a voice. “Umm, Tommy was crazy, not Burke.” I look at his friend. “And it was actually a book first, calledWiseguyby a crime reporter named Nicholas Pileggi, published in January 1985. Five years later, it was made into the movieGoodfellas.” I suck in some air. I haven’t said this much at once in a very long time. It feels good.
“Oh!” Mark laughs, pointing his knife at York. “You just got schooled!” The entire table bursts out laughing. York watches me while I struggle with the fact I just opened my mouth in front of so many people.
“There was no question. Jimmy could plant you just as fast as shake your hand. It didn’t matter to him. At dinner, he could be the nicest guy in the world, but then he could blow you away for dessert.” He quotes the book, clearly showing off to me how he already knows all about the novel. I secretly wonder if he is threatening me for embarrassing him.
“Chapter two, paragraph twenty-four,” I toss back. “Oh, and we’re having apple crisp for dessert. If you could hold off blowing me away until afterward, I’d appreciate it.”
Logan breaks into laughter first. The rest of the guys follow.
“She’s good,” Logan shouts over the roar of the table.
York leans back and folds his arms, watching me. His eyes make my skin crawl. The noise at the table dies down except for the sound of some of the guys polishing off the last of the food when York pipes up again. Clearly, he had been thinking.
“Savannah, you don’t strike me as someone who would read that kind of novel.” He stabs his last piece of steak.
I hate that I flinch. I’m sure I’m giving off an uncomfortable vibe. It doesn’t go unnoticed, because a smirk appears on his face.
“I’m trying to recall the last time I’ve seen a copy of that book.” He taps his finger against the table dramatically. “Oh, that’s right—it was on the little table in your cell.”
My hand twitches, my fork bouncing loudly off my plate.
“York.” Logan looks up from his meal.
I stare at my hands on my lap as images of that room fight their way to the surface.
“Little wooden table, right, with a stool?” he adds, and my stomach twists painfully.
“Enough, York,” Logan warns in a clipped tone.
I rise to my feet, desperate to get away from here, but Logan’s warm hand wraps around mine.
“Savannah, please stay.”
I stare down at him. I hate all the eyes on me, and I find myself rubbing my uneasy stomach.
He looks at York and nods toward the door. York shakes his head, tosses back his beer, then leaves the table, muttering.
“John,” Abigail says, breaking the tension in the room, and the man across from her raises his head. “Are you going into town tomorrow?”
Logan still has my hand. I pull it away. I feel like I don’t belong here.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to start anything,” I whisper so only he can hear.
The corners of his mouth turn up. “Are you kidding? It’s refreshing seeing someone take on York. He can be an ass sometimes.” He reaches for my hand again and tugs. “Please sit.”
I sink back down into my chair.
“Abigail, dinner was delicious.”
“Thank Savannah—she made it all.”
He looks back to me. “You made this?” he asks, surprised.
I nod.
“Don’t forget about the apple crisp,” Mark adds. “Speaking of…” He leans over to the table against the wall and picks up a bowl then sets the warm dessert in front us before diving right in.
“Impressive. I guess we still have a lot to learn about you.” Logan grins and takes a serving for himself.