Page 16 of Threads That Bind Us
“Deep. Gwen and Ana need to be vetted at levels that will meet the family’s standards.”
That gets her attention. The clicking abruptly stops, and I can almost see the look she’d be giving me if she were sitting in front of me.
“Do my ears deceive me, or should I search for bridesmaid dresses?” Her voice is teasing but sharp, and I know the weight that comes with it. Bringing someone into the family isn’t a choice any of us make lightly, although I might be throwing caution to the wind a bit here.
“Don’t start choosing flowers yet, Emily.” But my scolding has no bite. I promised her personal leverage, and she’s getting it. “But I’d like to see if she can keep up with us. And I need you to be a helpful little bookworm and make sure the skeletons in her closet won’t fuck us over.”
There are few things that I truly couldn’t handle, but if she was blood-related to one of our enemies there would be complications. Better to be prepared.
“How’d you meet the new Mrs. Costa?” Emily asks, her typing ramping up again. Seems she’s gotten past the shock.
“Does it matter?” I shoot back, pulling up a photo of Gwen and Ana in a middle school newspaper.
Despite the obvious similarities—the red hair, the freckles—the two really couldn’t look more different. Ana is thin and gangly, not just in the awkward pre-teen way, but in the way where you know she’ll be tall and lithe forever. Her nose is long and her jaw is sharp, and I wonder if she looks more like Ben or Isabelle.
“You telling me that you’ve purchased yourself a wife isn’t enough information for me, dear cousin. Give me the story while I start building their files.”
I’m barely listening, scanning Gwen from head to toe in the photo in front of me. It’s from four years ago, so she’s about twenty-three, according to the birthday on her license. She’s obviously tired, but clearly thrilled for Ana, who seems to have won some sort of prize. She’s got her arms wrapped around her sister’s shoulders, their faces pressed together with massive grins. Her hair is wrapped into a tight bun on top of her head, and there’s a pencil stuck through it like she ran to this competition from work. Despite the exhaustion, she looks happier.
No shit. She’s not dealing with cancer and Ben, and murder, and whatever the fuck else in this picture.
“I didn’t buy her,” I finally say to Emily. She scoffs, but I keep pushing. “And I met her at Catalina’s.”
“Cristo, I’ve been out of the loop. You haven’t even been in D.C. for over six months, and you’re just now getting a background…” she trails off, and I think she’s finally figured it out. “You’re telling me that, instead of the delightful friends I’ve set you up with over the years, you’ve decided to marry some girl you met less than twenty-four hours ago?”
“How do you know how long I’ve been back?” I ask. She ignores me. This is predictable.
“What happened to Luan? His mother does great document work for us, and he’s gotta be at least six-four. Or Chantrea? They’re doing more expressionist art stuff now, and their half-sister is already on our payroll.”
I know Emily’s not trying to talk me out of Gwen, she’s trying to understand my logic. I’m one of the little puzzles she likes to do to keep her brain fresh, like she’s a retiree in a group home.
And while Luan was handsome and Chantrea was engaging,my instincts never pushed me to commit more than a few nights. Perhaps it’s because I was looking for connection, for compatibility, when that’s all but impossible for someone like me. I should have been aiming for coincidence and mutual goals. But we’re here now, and I can’t ignore this pull toward Gwen. Though, for some reason, I don’t want to share that with Emily.
“Timing’s everything, right?” It’s a bad lie and she likely knows it, but she seems to let it slide.
“Just make sure you tell Clara about this when I’m in the opposite hemisphere.”
Chapter 8
Gwen
Iknow immediately that I’m not in my bed. My mattress has never once been this comfortable. There’s a memory, half dream and half nightmare, pulsing at the back of my mind with the beat of this fucking headache. I don’t want to wake up, because I know I’m about to face something less than ideal. But I can feel the warm sun on my face, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I have to confront reality.
With all the enthusiasm of getting a tooth extracted, I force open my eyes. Light filters through the curtains, gently illuminating what is most certainly not my apartment. I’m tucked under a plush comforter of muted olive, the sheets just a shade lighter, all buttery and soft against my skin. I sit up, clear my eyes, and take in the rest of the simple bedroom—dark wood furniture, decor in camel and green.
Simple, pretty, and calm.
Three adjectives that could not be used to describe me at the moment.
I clutch the sheets in my hands and try to piece together last night. I remember meeting with Ben and getting to Catalina’s. There are a few moments from the bar that are blurry, but I vaguely recall a bartender reciting a sonnet? I definitely remember Charlie, and the tattoos, and the feeling of his eyes on me. The fear that flooded my veins when he placed my watch on the bar top.
Shame rakes through me. Getting into Charlie’s car, whether or not I thought I had a choice, was the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done. He could have turned me in. Blackmailed me.Killed me. And what would happen to Ana then? Doesn’t matter that he seemed genuinely shameful that he scared the ever living fuck out of me.
Reckless. Fucking reckless.
I wallow in my anger, searching for my phone to check the time and make sure Ana hasn’t called when I see water and pain medication on the nightstand. Well, that’s considerate. He could have laced either with something, but if we’re being honest, there were dozens of times Charlie could have drugged and murdered me last night, so playing the bit out this long would be a little ridiculous. Or that’s what I convince myself as I down three pills and chug the water.
Under the glass there’s a small envelope, with thin, neat writing. I pick it up and stretch as I read.