I end on one important fact: Joey knows the answer.
Joey knows who killed my dad.
My pulse beats in my temples as I pick up my phone and dial Joey.
“Hey, babe.”
“Was it Pauly?” I rasp.
The long pause answers my question.
“Sophie.”
“Just tell me. Please. Was Pauly the one who killed my dad?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll come to your place. We’ll talk about it when I get there.”
I hang up without answering, my fingers trembling. I guessed correctly. Breathing hard, adrenaline pumping as if my life is in danger, I pace around my small place, trying to figure out what to do. Joey needs to tell me the truth when he gets here. If we’re going to have a relationship–
Actually, no. I don’t have to wait. For anyone. Not even Joey. Some kind of action is in order. I… can do something.
This is between me and Pauly. Joey shouldn’t even have to get in the middle of it.
I can go see Pauly. Get my closure. My father’s death has torn my life apart and continues to leave wreckage in its wake.
Maybe if I’d just known what happened, if I’d been able to confront his killer when it happened, I would be whole right now. Maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid of dating, of falling in love with a Made Man.
But confronting a killer is crazy.
Isn’t it?
Then I remember the gun Joey left. I won’t use it, but I’ll bring it along for protection. So he knows I mean business.
I grab it from the bedroom closet, examining it to refresh my memory on how to use it. But where will I put it? I don’t have pockets. If I put it in my purse it would be too difficult to get it in and out.
Throwing on a jacket, I slide the pistol in the pocket. Perfect. I draw in a shaky breath then get in my car and drive to the neighborhood where I grew up, where Pauly used to live. I’ll bet he still lives in that same house on the corner.
I pull up and take in the yellow house. I can remember my dad stopping by here with me when I was little. After his death, I don’t think I ever went there, but the house looks exactly the same.
I climb out of my car and walk up the steps to knock on the door, my heart beating at a dizzying tempo.
Pauly answers, surprise lifting his brows. “Sophie.” His eyes travel immediately to the hand I keep in my jacket pocket, and I realize how obvious the gun’s presence must be to a man conditioned to look for weapons.
I swallow, sweat trickling down my neck. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought the gun. He’s probably strapped and could shoot me before I figure out how to get the safety off.
His eyes move back to my face. “Yeah? You okay? You wanna talk?”
I nod.
“Come in.” He holds the screen door open for me. I step past him with my heart pounding. He leads me to the kitchen, where he pulls a chair out for me. I keep an eye on him as I squeeze past to sit, looking over my shoulder as he pushes the chair in. “What can I get you to drink? A Coke? Coffee?”
“No thanks,” I say quickly.
He grunts and sits down across from me at the round wooden dining table. It has elegant arched legs and claw knobbed feet.
I keep my hand in my pocket, the gun unforgiving in my sweaty palm.
“I remember you used to make me coffee.” He looks across the table at me. “You were a good kid, always.”