Page 165 of Rosetti Family New York
"Am I supposed to know who that is? Are you on TV or something?"
He scoffs, then slips into the next room without answering. I follow him slowly, taking in the sturdy furniture and the striking black-and-white photos on the walls. The silence between us is thick with unspoken words, with tension that seems to grow with each step I take toward him.
"Here," he says as he reappears with a cup of tea, its little steam cloud dancing. His voice rumbles low and steady, and the pause between his words feels just like a breath of fresh air. "To help you relax."
He extends the cup, and our fingers brush when I take it. A jolt of heat shoots up my arm, unexpected and disarming. His expression doesn't change, but I notice the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight dilation of his pupils. He felt it too.
I can't help but ask, "Is this where you kill me too?"
The challenge slips out, mixed with my desperate need for answers. My heart races, partly from fear and partly from something else I don't want to name.
He smirks slightly and replies, "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have made tea." He offers the cup and, with a playful tilt of his head, adds, "Blanket?"
My fingers warm on the cup, and for a moment, the simple comfort steadies me. I'm close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the small scar above his left eyebrow. His presence fills the room, powerful yet contained.
"I need answers," I say plainly.
He slides onto a cracked leather sofa. "First, tell me your name," he says. His voice is lower now, almost intimate in the quiet apartment.
I pause for a minute, but there doesn't seem any point in lying. And he seems like the kind of guy with enough resources to find the truth anyway.
"Sloane Carter," I tell him. "How did you know it was the Callahans?"
"I saw them," he replies with a matter-of-fact tone. "White van. Hard to miss."
"And you didn't stop them?" I press on.
"I don't poke my nose in where it might get bitten off." He picks up an old, worn blanket from an ancient-looking couch and tosses it to me. "Neither should you," he adds softly.
I grip the cup tighter, and then the question tumbles out, raw and unfiltered:
"Why did they do it? What did Maddy ever do to them?"
He leans in closer. "She got caught up in the wrong crowd. Made some bad choices. Bad friends."
I glare at him, feeling the heat in my cheeks. His proximity makes it hard to think straight. He smells like danger and security all at once, and I hate how much I want to lean into him despite everything.
"I'm her friend. So why am I still alive?" I ask.
"You were late," he answers bluntly.
The words hit me, jarring in their simplicity. Nothing makes sense right now. I should be scared, yet here I am, sipping tea with a self-confessed killer. The strangest part is how safe I feelin his presence, how my body betrays me by wanting to move closer to him instead of away.
"Are you part of this? Is that why you know so much?" I ask.
He pauses, and for a moment, the space between us feels thick with unspoken questions. Our gazes lock, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "Does it really matter?" he replies.
"Does that count as a yes?"
He tilts his head toward the hallway. "The bed's this way, if you're ready."
A part of me wants to run, to escape before everything falls apart. But I can't bear the thought of stepping foot outside into the dark night, surrounded by murderers and the memory of Maddy's dead body. So I follow, stepping down the hallway like a lamb to slaughter. My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it, the rhythm betraying emotions I don't want to acknowledge.
"Really going to let me sleep?" I ask.
"I don't need you dropping on my floor," he quips, holding the door open and nodding toward the bed.
My legs wobble as if the ground might give way beneath me, yet I step into the small, spartan room. It's even emptier than the rest of the house. A simple dresser, a lone chair, and a single lamp that casts soft, dancing shadows.
