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BARBARA

“ H e’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 Edith had 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?

He lifted his hands in a lazy shrug. “Didn’t mean to ruffle your delicate feathers.” He dropped his hands and his grin. “Where’s Cardello?”

“Mr. Cardello?” I repeated, feigning confusion. “I haven’t worked for him in months. Why on earth would I know where he is?”

Kowalski stood, rolling his thick neck with a slow crack. He took a few slow but deliberate steps toward me, and I instinctively backed away. “You’re cute when you play dumb,” he said. “But we both know you’re not that stupid.”

“I’m not playing,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.

He stopped just close enough for his shadow to swallow mine, his smirk curling at the edges.

This close, his cologne was overpowering, like he had bathed in it.

He was all chest and shoulders, his belly pressing against his belt like an afterthought.

Even though he was slightly shorter than me, he could overpower me in an instant if he wanted to.

“Try again, doll face.” His voice grated like gravel underfoot.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, the tang of fear sharp on my tongue. “You have to believe me,” I said, desperation creeping into my tone. “I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Call him,” Kowalski said, low and firm. “Tell him to come see you.”

I shook my head. “If I don’t know where he is, how can I?—”

“Humor me,” he growled.

Slowly, I started toward the phone in the foyer. My mind raced ahead of me, grasping for any plan that might save me—save us all. Could I scream? The neighbors were elderly—their hearing weak, their steps slower. Even if they called the police, would help arrive in time?

The plush carpet melted into polished hardwood as I reached the telephone table. I coiled the cord in my grip like a waiting snake.

“Go on,” Kowalski said. He had drifted closer, standing at the threshold between the living room and foyer. His hands rested in his pockets, but his posture was anything but relaxed.

I lifted the receiver to my ear, hesitated, then dialed Victor’s downtown apartment.

The line rang. No answer. A cool wave of relief swept through me, dampening the feverish panic clawing at my mind.

If Victor didn’t answer, he was safe—for now.

But a hollow ache followed quickly on its heels.

I needed Victor’s strength, his certainty. I needed him to tell me what to do.

I set the receiver back in its cradle and turned to Kowalski. “There’s no answer. He’s not home.”

Kowalski’s eyes narrowed, and he took a deliberate step forward. The hardwood groaned beneath his weight, the sound slicing through the stillness of the house. “Try again,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “And call every place he might be.”

My hand hovered over the phone, fingers itching with the impulse to grab the receiver and hurl it at him. A childish, futile instinct. I was trapped in my own home by a man with nothing to lose.

I dialed the office. No answer. My pulse thrummed in my throat as I tried the Malibu house. Nothing. Only the hollow, ringing silence of unanswered calls.

Kowalski shrugged. “No rush. I’m more than happy to wait him out. He’ll turn up sooner or later.” He cocked his head, watching me like a cat toying with a wounded bird. “In the meantime, why don’t you get me that cup of coffee you stiffed me on when we first met?”

My mind flashed back to that encounter in Victor’s office. The filth—moral or otherwise—rolling off him was just as pungent now as it had been then. “If it’s coffee you’re after, there’s a perfectly good diner down the street,” I said, hoping against hope that he’d take the hint and leave.

“Cute,” he drawled, stepping closer. “But I think I’ll stay put. Nice place you’ve got here. All alone…?”

A slow chill coiled in my stomach. There was no way out. I had to play along, buy time. “I’ll put on a pot,” I said, turning toward the kitchen.

Kowalski didn’t follow, but his presence pressed against me like a shadow. Every move took a calculated effort not to rush—anything to mask the sheer terror clawing at my ribs.

I switched on the kitchen light. The percolator sat waiting on the stove, as unbothered as ever. I pried open a tin of coffee, inhaling the rich, earthy aroma. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like any other evening—until reality slithered back in.

The slow thud of footsteps on hardwood made me freeze. Kowalski lounged in the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame. “Funny,” he mused, “I always wondered what a classy dame like you saw in a thug like Cardello.”

I measured out the coffee, forcing my hands to stay steady. “It’s just a job,” I said. “Or it was.”

He chuckled, low and thick, like he had gravel in his throat. “Sure. Just a job.” He let the silence spool out, long enough to make my skin prickle.

I filled the percolator with water and set it back on the stove. “It’ll take a few minutes,” I said, gaze fixed on the burner—anywhere but him.

“So tell me, sweetheart, how much stuff did he have to buy you before you warmed his bed? Or is that how you got promoted from the steno pool?”

I gripped the edge of the counter, imagining it was his thick neck. My chest constricted. “You have a vivid imagination,” I said, my voice taut as a piano wire.

Kowalski pushed off the doorframe and prowled into the kitchen. “It’s not imagination, sweetheart. Just the way things work. Guys like Cardello, they take what they want. And girls like you?—”