Page 99 of Letters From Victor

God, if you’re up there—and if you give a damn—let me get to her in time. Don’t take her from me. Please…

38

BARBARA

“He’s already sound asleep, Babs. Best to let him stay here for the night.” Edith covered Frankie with an extra blanket. “Wake him now, and he’ll be cranky as a bear. You’ll never get him back down.”

I nodded. “I suppose I could use some time alone with my thoughts.”

“I’ll take him to school in the morning. Or maybe I’ll keep him here and spoil him. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Take him for the week if you like,” I said, only half kidding. “Thank you, Edie. For everything.”

Edith walked me to the door and kissed my cheek. “You know I’m always here for you, Babs. Always. Call me when you get home.”

I stepped out into the night. The sky was a murky, starless void, and the streetlights threw long shadows across Edith’s well-manicured lawn. Crickets chirped in an unsteady chorus, their rhythm broken by the occasional bark of a distant dog.

I slid into my new DeSoto and started the engine. The dashboard cast a faint ghostly glow as the engine rumbled to life.

Leaving Frankie was never easy, but tonight, I felt a guilty relief. I needed the space to sort through the bombshell Edithhad dropped—that she was my real mother, that our “parents” had adopted me to save her from scandal. It made a twisted kind of sense—why she’d always favored me, watched over me like a hawk, treated me more like a daughter than a kid sister. But knowing the truth was something different altogether. It changed everything, and yet nothing.

I made the drive from Edith’s on autopilot. It was a miracle I got home because I had no recollection of the drive—I was too absorbed in my thoughts. Maybe I ran a red light. Maybe I didn’t. Either way, I made it.

I exited my car into the thick night air, heavy as a wool coat in the rain. As I ambled to the front door, my keys jingled softly in my hand, the sound oddly loud in the hush that had settled over the street.

Something made me pause—an instinctual twinge at the base of my skull. I glanced around the front yard, then over to the neighbor’s house across the street. All was still, yet a prickle of unease ran down my spine. I shrugged it off and turned the key in the lock.

The door swung open with a soft creak, and I stepped into the foyer. I set my purse down on the hall table and closed the door behind me. The oppressive night stayed on the other side, but it still felt like something had followed me in. I flicked on the foyer light, its soft glow bleeding into the adjacent living room.

A scent hit me. Cologne—thick, intrusive, clinging to the air like oil. Not Victor’s.

“Evening, doll face.”

My heart seized.

A hulking figure was sprawled in the armchair, one leg slung over the other like he owned the place. The heavy-lidded eyes, thick neck, receding hairline, and coarse features were unmistakable, even in the low light. I knew that grin, and it sent a cold spike of fear through my core.

“Mr. Kowalski.” My voice was steady and composed, though my pulse pounded in my throat.

“Flattered you remember me, doll. Thought maybe you weren’t coming home.”

Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to bolt. But where? “What are you doing here?” I asked carefully. The snub-nose pistol Victor had given me was hidden on top of the liquor cabinet in the living room. But Kowalski was planted right there, eyes locked on me.

“Social call,” he said, his voice slick with false charm. “Wanted to catch up with an old friend.”

A cold ripple of panic spread through me, but I steadied my breath. I needed to stay calm and composed. I was alone in this—no Superman to swoop in and save the day.

“I don’t recall us being friends,” I said, moving cautiously toward the living room. The plush carpet muted my steps, but my heart pounded loudly enough to fill the silence. I switched on the lamp. “You still haven’t answered my question. What do you want?”

Kowalski grinned wider, flashing teeth stained by years of cigars and cheap whiskey. “Straight to the point. I like that.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s simple, doll face. I want to know where your man is.”

“Which man would that be?” Each word felt like walking barefoot over broken glass.

“The dago,” he said, his tone tight.

I stiffened, appalled by the slur but careful not to show it. “I’m sure I don’t know who you mean. And kindly leave words like that outside my home.”

I glanced toward the liquor cabinet, calculating the distance. Even if I made it there, what then?

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