Page 234 of Rosetti Family New York
"This is my favorite room in the whole place," she says, snuggling into one of the armchairs and pulling a blanket across her lap.
"The big bad brothers have managed to pull off one decent, cozy space," she adds.
I reply with a 'hmph' while I stack larger wood in a teepee over the kindling.
We sit in silence while I build the fire, sitting on my haunches and poking at the wood, blowing on the baby flames, urging the violent heat to destroy the wood.
"You look like you do that a lot," she says softly, curious.
I keep my eyes on the flames as they dance along the log, watching the curl of smoke rise up in a slow spiral, like it's got all the time in the world. It's safer than looking at her.
"I do, whenever I can't sleep," I answer, the words coming out measured. "This is my favorite room too."
"You often awake late?" she asks, the steel edge of her voice softened by her own curiosity.
"Yeah. You?"
I focus on the snap, the pop, the small explosions of the wood.
Sloane shifts, moving away from the chair and sinking down to the floor in front of the fire, like that's where she belongs. I'm reminded how different we are. How wrong I am for her. How I should tell her to leave, to go to bed, to save herself from me. But my mouth won't open.
She draws her knees in, small against the orange light, and I hate how fragile she looks. I hate how badly I want to make her feel safe.
"I get nightmares," she admits quietly.
There it is. The crack. Not in her voice, but in her armor.
"Nightmares about your dog? Bear?" I ask, keeping my distance.
She nods, her eyes far away.
"I used to think if I just kept explaining… if I kept repeating my innocence… it would fix something," she says. "That maybe people would believe me."
I stay still. If I move, if I breathe too loud, she might stop. I can't risk that.
"Everyone blamed me. For years, kids at school whispered about it. Called me the girl who killed her own dog."
My jaw tightens. That's the kind of wound that doesn't scar; it soaks in.
She laughs, but it's the sound you make when something still hurts and you're sick of hiding it.
"I started believing it," she says.
I want to kill those kids. Ridiculous, irrational, but it flashes hot behind my ribs.
"You were a kid," I remind her, trying to pull her back.
"Yeah. A kid who learned fast that once people think you're guilty, you stay guilty. No matter what's true."
I know that story. It's just told in different rooms.
The fire pops. I slide down to the rug beside her.
"That's why you're so set on proving that Maddy wasn't into drugs. That she wasn't asking to be murdered. That she did nothing wrong," I say, keeping my voice steady and pulling my knees up to my chest.
"God, I want to believe that so bad," she says in a voice so small it nearly disappears. "But now, with all this stuff about Ethan and the Red Hooks, I don't know what to believe. The more I dig, the more she looks involved. Maddy was everything. I thought I was the only one who got it, got her. But maybe I didn't."
I don't interrupt. I know better than that.
