Page 33 of The Marriage Contract

I almost laugh, breaking character. Instead, I take the cell and pretend to type. “What’s your passcode?”

She grins. “I shouldn’t tell you that, should I? I’ll type it for you.”

“Here you go. Oh!” I pretend to drop the phone, then lean down and pick it up. “It’s busted. I’m so sorry; I’ll pay for a new one. In the meantime, do you have a landline?”

Her eyes gleam. “I’ve been waiting for one of your kind to come.”

I’m surprised for a moment, but the exhilaration of acting keeps me going in the scenario. I broaden my stance. I put a grim note to my voice. “So you know what I am, then, day dweller?”

“I know, and I’m ready.” She pretends to take something out of her pocket. “This is a clove of garlic.”

I smirk. “Those old myths, day dweller? I’ll take your garlic and use it in my pasta sauce. It doesn’t do a thing to us.”

“What aboutthis?!” She leaps to her feet, looking so different from her usualpersonathat I wonder if she’s been putting on an act all this time, too. Or maybe it’s natural that she’d be more reserved during the more official aspects of her life. “What say younow?” She aims a fake gun at me.

“Unless those bullets are filled with holy water, you’re out of luck?—”

“I’m never out of luck. Bang!”

I throw myself to the floor. I realize I’ve gone too enthusiastically for the tumble just before I make contact. “Ow,” I yelp, rolling onto my back as the impact judders through my body.

“My girl.” Maria walks toward the stage steps. “Are you quite all right?”

I sit up, rubbing my arm. “Yeah, I think so. I got carried away.”

She climbs up the steps and then offers me her hand. “So did I.”

As I clasp her hand, a weird feeling grips me. Is this what having a mom is like? It’s a sick question. Rosa has been a mom to me for almost a decade and a half.

“You are very talented,” Maria says once I’m on my feet again.

I shrug. “It won’t matter for very long, though.”

“You’ll be able to perform little plays for the Family, I’m sure. Your children will adore your dramatic tendencies.”

That makes me feel a little bitter, if I’m honest. “You were excellent too, Mrs.—”

“Maria, Elena,” she says. “Call me Maria.”

“You were very convincing and quick-thinking,” I say.

She bites down. “What’s that famous quote about the whole world being a movie?”

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances …”

“Clever, clever girl,” she says, which I should find maybe insulting, infantilizing, but I don’t.

“It’s not so impressive, knowing a little Shakespeare.”

“Please don’t diminish yourself,” she says. “It’s the worst thing a woman can do, especially in your position.”

The crazy urge to tell her the truth strikes me. Of course, I ignore it, but it’s shocking that it’s there all the same. I’m not sure what I’m even thinking. I can’t let this maternal connection, if that’s what this is, turn me into an idiot. She’d never accept me if she knew who I was in reality. She might see her stuffiness as apersona, but she wouldn’t offer me kindness if she knew I was using an actual façade.

“I have to make a call,” she says. “I forgot I promised Salvatore I’d check in with him. But afterward, we’ll continue our game.”

“Excellent.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

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