Page 17 of Small Town Secrets

But he’d taken too long to reply and in the drawn-out silence, her stare hardened on him. “Who are you and why do you want to know?”

Though her sudden iciness sent him off-kilter, he let out a sigh and kept his tone casual. “I’m in Harlow to help these people shake the syndicate for good. So far, you’ve mentioned being in the same circles as Emilia, which seems to be the case with the syndicate, also. I hope you can see that asking is merely part of my job.”

She shook her head and scoffed again, very much a headstrong heiress who didn’t shy from confrontation. “I am not connected with any crime ring. I wanted a break from my travels and work, and with already knowing some people here, Harlow seemed a good place to stop for a while.”

She twisted as if set to leave, only to turn around and level another heated scowl his way. “Actually, no, I’m not done yet. I take offense to your asking. My whole family has spent decades in this country trying to create something positive for our people. We give and give wherever we can. So, I absolutely take issue with Italians being constantly compared to criminals and crime gangs.”

“Rochelle.” Gordon reached for her hand, but she swatted him away.

“Oh, no. Don’t stop me.”

Gordon reeled back a little, perhaps never having experienced this side of his new woman. Meanwhile, water gathered along the rim of Rochelle’s eyes, but the heat remained there, and she continued to stare Ramos down. “You’re right, we Italians do have bad apples in our bunch, but did you also know there’s a closer connection between poverty and crime, than there is to any culture? My granddad came to this country already a successful man, and yet, he still found himself locked out of opportunities, his business outright sabotaged, his ideas stolen… and still, he’s a success story. What happens to the ones who don’t have any of that?”

A tense quiet passed where he clenched his jaw and tried not to growl under his breath, even as his eyes felt like they were on fire from restraining his anger. That she accused him of being biased based on where her family came from. “You think I don’t know that? My surname’s Ramos, for fucks sake.”

She nodded, still very much pissed. “Oh, I know you know, and I’m sure you understand that migrants often get locked out of education and chances to get ahead. Then there’s the general distrust pointed at us. You know that only leads to us developing the same distrust right back. To communities building their own opportunities when the only other option on offer is failure. That’s how gangs get started in the first place, right?”

“Right.” He muttered the word because nothing she said here was news to him. He’d encountered the same push back in his own community. He’d worked within the same bodies of authority they distrusted. He’d experienced the in-built suspicion, could see through Rochelle’s perspective, even if his own suspicions toward her didn’t fully abate.

“I meant no offense.” He peered up at her, surprised at his softened reply while still not sure he downright believed in her complete innocence. “There’s more to us than the bad things that hold us back. So, I hope you and your family continue to do good things for your community.”

The tension across her brow eased and the fire in her brown eyes cooled. For a long time, she stared at him in stillness, before she nodded to herself and spoke to no one in particular. “I have to go. I have some phone calls to make.”

Eleven

Laila stood within the doorway of her modest childhood home, her hand wrapped around Whitney’s and the air outside already cooler. Not that a temperate evening mattered all that much, not when this house emanated warmth and love, and her childhood memories of bounding up and down the stairs with her little sister. Sometimes those memories lessened the sting of just how often she left Whitney here. That her little girl would create her own memories of this place and her grandparents.

Laila slipped the duffle bag filled with Whitney’s things off her shoulder and strolled deeper into the living area, her mom standing behind the kitchen counter, while old Aggie smiled from above her teacup at the kitchen table.

“Working late again?” Aggie raised an eyebrow and sipped at her tea, the word “again” bringing a familiar pang to Laila’s heart.

She nodded and gave a tight chuckle. “When don’t I?”

“Oh, now”—her mother strode over and lifted Whitney for a quick kiss—“it won’t be forever.”

She booped Whit’s nose and then released her. Whitney, as always, was quick to race upstairs to claim free rein over Laila’s old bedroom. A room now strewn with way more toys than Laila ever had.

Even in Whit’s excitement, Laila’s reluctance to leave her daughter tied its usual knots within her tummy—a permanent, whispering warning that one day her greatest fear might come true, where something might happen, and Laila would be working far from Harlow in her daughter’s hour of need.

Now, her mom drew in and landed a kiss to Laila’s cheek, her familiar concerned frown taking over as she pulled away. “How are you doing, honey?”

“I have an assignment worth fifty percent of my summer school grade due the day after tomorrow, and of course as usual, no time to work on it.” Laila fiddled with her car keys and shrugged. “I guess I’ll study through my break tonight, then try to eke out more time tomorrow evening.”

She wanted to lift her gaze to her mother but failed, certain her earlier worried look hadn’t improved.

“Oh, honey. If I didn’t have work tomorrow, I’d keep Whit here longer, but you’re welcome to bring her back in the afternoon for an extra sleep over. That should give you at least a few uninterrupted hours to turn in that assignment.”

Her insides churned that she’d once again be sacrificing more of her time with Whitney, but her mother’s offer was a generous one, and as her Ma said, with any luck, this would all be over one day soon. So, she gave a hurried nod and lifted her focus back to her mom, only to glimpse Aggie padding over and her stare stuck to Laila.

“So, I’m about to head off too”—an unsettling glint spread through her blue-green eyes—“but not until Miss Laila here fills us in on that man from the wedding. A good deal of sparks were flying between these two, dontcha think, Vel?”

While Aggie turned her attention to Laila’s mom—her actual name Velma—Laila bit her lower lip and held back the urge to groan, her suspicions on Aggie’s glint all-too-correct.

“We just talked a bit at the reception, that’s all.” Laila mumbled through her rapid heartbeat, that beat a little faster due to having to lie as well as discuss Ramos.

Aggie’s eyes narrowed, that glint of hers flaring brighter. “So, you two didn’t have a date at the playground?”

Damnit! Harlow’s rumor mill strikes again.

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