Page 82 of City Of Thieves
“Tell me what to do.”
“Is Dad still there?”
There’s a weighted pause and then the sound of light footsteps. “Yes. His car’s still outside.” I let out a breath. “I think I can hear him downstairs. Shit, he’s leaving.”
“Stall him. Donotlet him leave that house for at least thirty minutes, Rosalia. I don’t care how you do it; just make it happen.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Get creative.”
She mumbles out a curse. The next sound I hear is that of a door opening. I’m about to ask her what the hell she’s doing when the line is filled with a loudclackingnoise. It takes me back to the first night in Tatiana’s gallery when I watched her walk away from me, knowing, deep down, we were a done deal already.
“What’s that?” I demand.
“Manolo Blahniks, hardwood, and ‘creativity’,” she says with a sigh. “You owe me for this.”
“For Nero,” I mutter.
“For Nero,” she returns softly.
The taillights in front of me start to dim, igniting a slow wave of movement. I’ve barely eased my foot off the brake when she lets out a blood-curdling scream, causing me to slam on the gas, nearly rear ending the SUV in front of me for a second time.
“What thefuck?” I choke the steering wheel and listen to thud after thud until a final sickening crash elicits a piercing cry.
My jaw drops when I realize what she’s done. My beautiful, fearless, crazy sister has just thrown herself down a flight of stairs for me. Wincing at her curses, I make a mental note to buy her half of Tiffany’s when this is over.
“Rosalia!” My father’s panicked baritone voice thunders in the background, the tension in my shoulders easing the louder it gets. “Becca!” I hear him shout to my mother. “Call an ambulance!”
I revise my earlier thought…
For this, I’m buying her every diamond Tiffany’s has.
* * *
It starts rainingtwo miles before I cross into North Caldwell. First one drop… then a thousand, until it’s an onslaught—pounding the glass with the kind of violence that doesn’t let up for a prayer or a promise. At the same time, the dark clouds and thunder come rolling in from the south, blanketing the stars in warning.
By the time I pull up to the curb outside the simple, ranch-style brick house, the needles hitting the windshield have turned into a solid sheet of water.
Through the downpour, I see my father’s Benz sitting in the driveway. Glancing at my phone, I scan Rosalia’s last text again.
Couldn’t stall him any longer. He just left.
Sent at 9:27 p.m.
I check my watch.
9:38 p.m.
Late, but only by a few minutes...
I send a message back to my sister as I slide the car into park.
Just tell me you didn’t break anything.
She answers immediately.
Nothing that a year’s worth of spa days can’t fix. Be careful. I love you.
