Page 80 of Devil's Thirst

“I have to go,” I say tonelessly.

If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to lose my shit.

They must sense the bleak nature of my mood because neither of them tries to stop me. The rain has let up, though the sky is every bit as ominous as before. I have no business going back to Amelie’s place while my head is such a mess, but I need to check on her. I drive home in silence. No music. Only me and my seething anger at my father.

I hate that he’s not here for me to punish.

I’d thought I was over that emotional hiccup and had moved on to learning from the experience, but this has sent me reeling back to the past. I feel like that teenager who got shipped off to Sicily all over again, and that makes me angrier than anything. That my father, yet again, has made me feel powerless, even from the grave.

When I let myself into the apartment, Freya begins to growl. I assure her it’s okay, but the noise is enough to wake up Amelie where she’s fallen asleep on the sofa.

“Sorry to wake you,” I say in a hollow voice. I feel so shitty I can’t even look at her, afraid she’ll see the shame in my eyes.

“It’s okay. I hadn’t even meant to fall asleep.” She stands.

“You can stay there. I can’t stick around. I just wanted to check in.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks warily, her voice etched in concern. I don’t want her concern or her pity. I don’t deserve any of it, and I know if I tell her what I’ve learned, she’ll say the same things as my sister.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“If it’s got you this upset, I think I should know.”

“No,” I snap, finally meeting her wide eyes. “Nothing you can say or do will change any of it. The problem is that no one fucking tells the truth. Families keep secrets from one another, which leads to people making bad choices because they don’t have all the facts. If people would just be fucking honest about who and what they are, we could all go about our fucking lives.”

I’ve taken out my anger on Amelie and regret every word of it the second it’s out. Even more so when I see the wounded crease in her brows. She looks close to tears, and I’m disgusted with myself.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just upset, okay? I need to clear my head, and I’ll be good once I’m back.”

I don’t risk staying a second longer. She’s safer with Freya right now than she is with me. I’ll have to make things up to her in a big way once I get my head on straight.

Once I’m in my car, I text Noemi.

Me: What’s his mother’s address?

Noemi: Why? You’re making me nervous. She’s a good woman.

Again, my anger surges. I’m not going to fucking hurt the woman, but Em doesn’t know that. She only knows that I’m upset, so I rein it in and try to explain.

Me: I just want to see her, I swear. Not even going to talk to her.

The conversation dots come and go twice before a text with the address lights the screen. I put it into my GPS and start to drive. On my way, I pick up a bottle of whiskey because fuck if I don’t deserve a drink.

Evening sets in early because of the heavy clouds overhead, making it hard to see by the time I arrive at the building. I don’t know what I’m doing here. It’s not like I even know who to look for—I just feel like I need to be here. To process. Maybe to grieve. Fuck if I know.

I watch people come and go on the sidewalk as I sip my whiskey straight from the bottle. The next thing I know, two kids knock on my window and light streams in all around me. It’s morning, and I need to piss like a motherfucker.

“I told you he wasn’t dead,” one of the kids says to the other when I open the door.

“Jesus, I feel like I might be.” Did I drink that whole damn bottle? Not even close, but what I did consume was enough to give me a wicked headache.

The kids snicker at me, then run off. I look up and down the sidewalk, trying to figure out where I can piss, when a woman rounds the corner, several reusable grocery sacks hanging from her arms.

I physically flinch, feeling like someone’s put a fist into my gut.

She looks so much like him. I don’t doubt for a second that it’s her—Umberto’s mother.

She locks eyes with me and slows. The world around us disappears while time stands still. In our momentary bubbleoutside of time and space, I sense she’s just as unsettled as I am. Just as wounded.

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