Page 112 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Same night, late
I open the door and step back so she has space.
She looks wiped.
Color gone.
A hand on the rail a beat longer than it should be.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods and hangs her coat.
She does not kiss me.
She goes for the sink and fills a glass.
Small sips.
Crackers from her pocket.
She thinks I don't see that part. I do.
“One of my watchers says you changed two shifts last week,” I say. “You skipped an early. You swapped out of triage twice. You move slower some days. Paler. I had them check for a fever on the camera. Nothing. Do you want to talk to me, Elisa?”
Her back tightens.
She keeps her face toward the window.
“You watch me at the hospital now?”
“I watch the doors you use,” I say.
“The SUV that has parked on your block three times this week is not mine. I get told what matters.”
She sets the glass down.
Still no eye contact.
The room is quiet.
I see what I have been trying not to see.
The crackers.
The water.
The way she pushes a palm flat against her stomach without thinking about it.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
My voice stays even. Inside, it's not.
“No.” She looks at the floor.
That is when the last piece slides into place.
“Look at me,” I say.
