Page 81 of A Favor Owed

I don’t know what his connection to Agent Rivera is, and I don’t care. I just know in my gut it exists. It’s too much of a coincidence that they’re both from the Bronx and both had been firefighters. Whatever Brady owes this guy, whatever the basis of their partnership is, one thing is certain: it’s more important to Brady than anything he might feel for me.

“What was that all about?” asks Elisa.

I’m about to tell her that he was just following up on an internship I applied for back in New York, the lie coming to me immediately. But I can’t do it.

“My mob research is coming back to haunt me a little,” I say.

“Are you okay, Angela?”

“I’m okay.”

“Do you need help? Is there anything I can do?”

Her concern is palpable and genuine. If only my boyfriend had been half as concerned for my welfare. “I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

I keep everything contained as I ride back to Dos Torres with Elisa—the tears that burn behind my eyelids, the betrayal and fury that taste like ashes, the heartbreak that threatens to split me open from the inside. I close my eyes and lull myself into temporary denial. It’s the same feeling I had when Brady and I drove back to Dos Torres after the fire. Even though I can’t face it yet, deep in my mind I know everything will be gone, burned to the ground, unsalvageable. And I don’t know how I’m going to survive it.

Chapter Thirty-One

Brady

Can you have study group at the law school or one of the girls’ places tonight? I’m not feeling well. Elisa’s giving me a ride home.

Her text came in about an hour after I heard from Lou. I spent that hour trying to murder a punching bag at the gym with my fists. Now I’m sitting down on a bench in the locker room, sweat streaming down my face and burning my eyes. I finally snap out of it and reach for a towel. I hold it over my face, breathing in and out, trying to figure out what to do now that we’ve driven over the cliff.

Option number one, and the one that my impetuous, emotional Irish heart wants to move full speed ahead on, is to drive over to Legal Aid, pick her up (literally), bring her home, and force her to listen to me. If she knew the whole story, if she knew when it started and when it ended and everything in between, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that she might forgive me. I mean, it’s not a sure thing by any means, but I’d give it maybe a 5 percent chance.

Option number two is to do as she says and get out of the apartment for a few hours so she can clear out her things and go God knows where. Respect her wishes, give her some space and time, and eventually, like in five years or so, convince her to hear me out.

And then there’s option number three.

No problem, princess. Text me if you need me to get you anything. Dinner’s in the fridge.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Angela

Son of a bitch. He’s here. I open the door to the apartment, and there he is, sitting on the sofa, eyes trained on the television, hair still wet from a shower.

“What happened to study group?” I ask, forcing myself to adopt a casual tone and not shoot daggers from my eyes straight into his traitorous heart. I drop my bag in the entryway and head toward the kitchen. Normally, I would jump right into his lap and kiss him, having gotten addicted to the affection I’ve apparently been starved for my whole life. “I feel like shit,” I say to explain my behavior. “My head feels like it’s going to split in two.” That sure isn’t a lie.

Wordlessly, he stands up and heads down the hall. When he comes back, he hands me two Advil.

“Thanks.” I move as far away from him as I can as quickly as I can without inspiring suspicion. I pour myself a glass of water and guzzle it along with the Advil.

“Angela.”

“I’m going to bed. You should probably go out tonight if you’re not studying. It’ll be a while until we can socialize what with exams coming up.”

“Angela.”

Finally I look at him, and I notice that his eyes are red and shadowed. It occurs to me that he’s the one acting suspiciously. “What?” I say.

“Lou Rivera called me.”

I squeeze the water glass so hard it shatters in my hand.

“Shit, Ange,” he says, coming toward me. “Are you okay?”

---