Page 20 of Morally Black Betrothal
I gave her a kiss on the cheek, then pulled her into a hug, which she barely returned. Sel had never been the most affectionate person. That seemed to be a gene only I got, despite the fact that we were identical twins.
“Aunt Simone!”
I turned to pick up my niece and whirl her around on the sidewalk, enjoying the way her laugh bubbled like soda. I accepted a sloppy kiss to the cheek and inhaled her scent of Goldfish crackers and grape juice. “Hiya, kiddo. How’s it going?”
“Good. Mommy’s worried, though.” Kylie, far more perceptive than most four-year-olds, spoke with solemnity that was balanced by her inability to pronounce the lettersrandl. I adored her for both.
“I’m not worried, Ky. And I’ll thank you to mind your own business.” Selena reached for her daughter.
With a whimper, Kylie allowed herself to be taken from my arms and back on the ground. I took a deep breath and turned to my twin.
It might have been a carbon copy of my own face, but that expression was totally hers. Desperation mixed with a shifty plan of some sort that almost certainly led to chaos.
A knot formed in my belly.
“Ky can’t come into the lounge, so we need to be quick. What’s going on?”
Selena’s eyes darted down the street and back to me as she shifted her too-slender frame from one foot to the other. “I’m in trouble.”
“I gathered that from our phone call,” I said with a quick look at Kylie, who was taking in every word like they were coated inchocolate. “What’s going on? Do you need money for groceries? Bills?”
“No, nothing like that.” Selena shook her head. “It’s serious. I’m really fucked.”
I glanced at Kylie again, who blinked at me like a goldfish. “You mean fudged?”
I hated it when she swore around Kylie. In my opinion, kids deserved at least five full years before being forced to lose their innocence. Poor Ky was barely four, and she was a hell of a lot brighter than most.
When Selena rolled her eyes, I turned to Kylie. “Hey, baby girl. Can you count the bricks on that wall over there? My boss wanted me to tell him exactly how many we have. I’ll get you some jelly beans if it’s the right number.”
Kylie’s eyes lit up. “Sure! I’m getting really good at counting.”
She scampered the ten feet away to start labeling bricks with random numbers (and letters) between one and five. I heard three at least four times. I didn’t love that my niece’s supervision at the moment was a dirty brick wall, but it was better than hearing her mother curse a blue storm while she unloaded on me.
“Okay, what happened?” I asked, shifting my duffel with a change of clothes onto my other shoulder.
The fear in her eyes was practically metallic, it was so sharp. “I’m just trying to find my hustle, you know?”
I rolled my eyes. “Your hustle?”
“I need money, you know that. And I hate working for other people.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware of both of those facts, Sel.” I checked my watch again. “Look, we can brainstorm future career paths after I’m off, okay?—”
“Do you remember Ezra Huntington?” she cut me off in a rush of words.
I searched my brain. “Maybe. It sounds familiar.”
“We went to high school with him. His dad is?—”
“Oh…” It was coming back to me. The lanky kid who transferred in our junior year. Who skipped class and used to follow Selena like a lost puppy (along with half the boys in our graduating class). “Ezra. Right. I remember. Everyone always joked that his dad was involved with the mafia or something.” I snorted. “Because Woodstock, Vermont, is a real hot spot for the mob.”
She blinked at me with a pointed look.
“Wait. His dadwasin the mob?” My stomach sank when I realized why, exactly, my sister was telling me this. “Selena, what did you do?”
“You always think the worst of me, don’t you?”
“No, I just—well, you don’t have the best track record, to be fair. And you did just tell me you’re in trouble.”
