Page 104 of I Will Mend You

The pair continue to the table, where I’ve laid out a parmesan and arugula salad and jugs of lemon-infused water. Sun filters through the tall windows, casting a warm golden light over Amethyst’s blonde curls. Her skin is paler than usual, with dark circles under her eyes, but the smile on her lips is genuine.

“So, how did you escape the electric chair?” Myra asks as I take my seat opposite Amethyst.

“With great determination and cunning,” I reply with a flash of my teeth.

Camila sets down a platter of antipasto, takes her seat opposite Myra, and kicks me under the table. Ignoring my sister, I watch Amethyst, wondering if she’ll eat. Isabel put her on a liquid diet because she wasn’t keeping down solids. I hope this dish will make a difference.

“Did you make this, Xero?” Myra asks.

I turn my attention to the redhead. “Don’t worry, Myra. No hearts were sliced up to create this arancini. I usually reserve body parts to serve with fava beans and chianti.”

She shifts in her seat and pales.

“Xero, stop being a dick to my best friend,” Amethyst says with more passion than she’s expressed since the night she broke through the illusion.

“Sorry, my love,” I reply with a smirk.

Amethyst flushes. “You should apologize to Myra.”

I turn my gaze to the redhead, who shakes her head.

“It was a joke.” She picks up a piece of arancini and pops it into her mouth. After taking several careful chews, she adds, “But your talents are more suited to cooking.”

Grinning, I turn back to Amethyst, who shoots me a stern glare, but the corners of her lips twitch at her little friend’s comeback.

She picks up a golden ball and studies it for several seconds. I lean forward, wondering if it triggers any memories. Melonie Crowley’s diary was disturbing, and the mental torture Amethyst endured drew a surprising parallel to what I put her through when I first left prison.

Knowing what happened to her all those years ago might help her understand a little more about her sister. And Amethyst’s own connection to Father. But I’m not sure she’s ready to read the diary

On the subject of my bastard sire, some of the information from my recent encounter with Carl Hunter was unexpected. No one I’ve ever captured has given me such in-depth insight into Father’s background. The Deputy Chief of Police was such a valuable font of information that I kept him alive for further interrogation. Now that he’s started to talk, getting more background information on Father will be a breeze.

Cooking this dish from scratch was necessary to give myself something to do other than oscillate between my hatred of Father and fretting about Amethyst’s mental state.

Amethyst finally takes a sniff, then a bite. She closes her eyes as she savors the mozzarella-filled rice ball. My breath catches as the corners of her mouth lift with a smile.

Satisfaction roars in my heart at having nourished the woman I love. The thought of lifting her mood ignites my heart with sparks of joy.

“My mom used to make these when I was little,” she says, her voice wistful. “I liked this one, but my sister preferred the one she stuffed with meat.”

Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “How would I know that?”

“Are your memories returning?” Myra asks with a gasp.

Amethyst shakes her head, her brow furrowed. “No. Maybe… It just came out.”

Silence settles around the table. I sit back, watching her take another tiny bite. Her features pinch as if trying to dredge up another memory.

“I don’t actually remember Mom making this for me,” she says, lowering her lashes. “She doesn’t even like carbs.”

Camila shoots me a glance, seeming to ask if Amethyst remembers her mother is dead. I give her a discreet nod.

Myra leans into Amethyst and places an arm around her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Amethyst nods, her eyes meeting mine. “This is lovely. Thank you.”

I return her nod and smile. Then the tension around the table lifts as my sister and Myra break into a conversation about the happenings in her apartment block. Amethyst returns to her arancini, takes another small bite, and chews.

“Are you still accepting clients?” Myra asks me.

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