Page 114 of The Broken Note

Tina chugs on her cigarette again. “Maybe that’s why I’m angry.” Her eyes climb to the ceiling. “I couldn’t get Jarod Cross, but my daughter is screwing his son. That’s irony if I’ve ever heard it. My daughter…” Her eyes burn into mine, “becoming awhorefor the Cross boys.”

I slam my hand on the table, my placid expression twisted into a threatening one.

“I don’t care if you’re her mother. Don’t youevertalk about her like that. You hear me? I will freaking end you and it won’t be difficult.” I grip the edges of the table and lean over. “Because all it takes is one call, one picture of you going about your business, and plenty of people will have questions.” My eyes narrow. “And I’m not talking about the cops.”

She flicks her gaze over me, her eyebrows tightening. From the tremble of her lips, I can tell the threat landed where it was supposed to.

“She got it from you,” Tina whispers as if she just stumbled on a secret.

I glare at her.

“You’re Cadey’s backbone.” She smirks again and crushes the butt of her cigarette into the ash tray near her left hand. “Forty-Sixth and third, Hamshire Street. Eleven o’clock.”

I stand straight, not batting an eye.

“The evidence against your father. You’ll find it there.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE

CADENCE

There’s a knock on the door and breakfast arrives in the hands of a familiar face.

“Martina!” I blink in shock.

“Señorita.” Martina hustles inside, carrying heavy bags.

“Let me help you.” I grab one of the canvas bags from her and set it on the table.

Vi pokes her head out of her bedroom, sees our guest and hustles out. “Who’s this?”

“This is… uh… Dutch’s—”

“Maid.” Martina grins broadly and takes out containers of food on our tiny, linoleum-lined counter. “Although Finn always scolds me for saying that. Apparently, such a word is ‘problematic’. It is hard to keep up with what is problematic these days. Just call me Martina.”

Viola blinks.

So do I.

“Dutch said you need your vitamins, foods strong in protein and calcium.” Martina gestures to the spread. Confidently, she opens our cupboards, finds the spoon and fork drawer, and takes out cutlery. “So I made you eggs with cheese, salmon…”

Vi’s eyes meet mine. Her eyebrows touch her hairline as she mouths, “Salmon?”

“… and peanut butter French toast. Turkey bacon. It’s much healthier for you.” She points to another bowl filled with freshly sliced strawberries, kiwi, berries, papaya and mango. “Eat the fruits first. It is better for digestion.” She wipes her palms against her skirt. “Oh, what am I forgetting?”

“There’s more?” Vi chokes.

“Juice! Yes.” She uncaps a tall, stainless steel mug. The brand on the side makes my eyes water. This is a designer tumbler. Same as any other tumbler… except it goes for two hundred and fifty bucks.

I blink rapidly. “Martina, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Bothering you. I’ll ask Dutch not to do things like this again.”

“No, bother. No bother, señorita. I’m okay.”

“But—”