Page 19 of Before Broken Vows
I didn't mean the last line, not really. But I said it anyway. Because anger is easier than hope. Because distance is safer than truth or worry.
I pull out my phone. I have too much to do to let her back into my blood. And yet, here she is.
In my house.
In my head.
I text my men:
The lawyer. Chris Xanos. I want a report on him by morning.
I put my phone on the charging base and strip down to my boxer briefs and slide into bed.
I think falling asleep isn't something I'm ready for—there's too much going on—but before I know it, I'm out.
Next thing I know, it's 7:43 a.m. and I'm sitting up, stretching.
I shower, dress, and sit in the lounge chair and go over my messages on my phone. One of them is an encrypted text. I unlock it to read:
We have eyes on Xanos. Works and lives for a boutique firm in Kolonaki. Lives alone. Both parents deceased. Drives a black BMW, plate ending 5643. We've secured access to his cell phone. Nothing of use yet. No movement yet today
Perfect.
I reply back.
Don't approach yet. Just watch. I want everything. Calls, contacts, routines
If this lawyer is the thread, I'm going to pull until the whole fucking web collapses. And I hope that just because he lives in the wealthy part of Athens, he doesn't think I won't throw him in the trunk of my car in broad daylight.
I grab the second phone, the one reserved for estate communications only, and fire off another message.
Dinner tonight. Her and me. No excuses
Elena responds within seconds:
Okay. I should have something light prepared. The jet lag must be hard on her.
I stare at the screen for a second too long. Hard on her?
Well, Elena does remember her. Maybe that's where any sympathy is coming from.
Once I send off a few more texts, I head into the kitchen. The air smells faintly of espresso. I look out the window, and I'm surprised to see her already out there sitting in the exact spot she did every morning, looking over the garden.
It's a comforting sight that makes me feel something so foreign to me now.
I don't know why, but I stare at her as I make coffee and then, without thinking, I walk outside.
She's sitting on a stone bench beneath the lemon tree, knees pulled to her chest, hair loose around her face.
She hears me approaching but doesn't move.
"You found your spot again," I say.
She looks up, eyes shaded. "I always loved this tree."
Silence hangs between us. Then she says, "It's changed. Someone added lavender. It's my favorite."
"I know," I say, taking a sip of coffee, hoping she won't connect the dots. "You'll join me for dinner tonight. Eight p.m."
