Page 194 of Rosetti Family New York
"That's why I'm asking you to come," I argue back, trying to push some cheer into my voice.
Pause. I imagine him thinking it over, weighing his options.
"I can't today," he finally says.
"And here I thought you'd be more helpful than Lucas," I jab, feeling the exasperation spill out.
He sighs, the sound low and gruff.
"Today doesn't work for me, Sloane. We’ll go Thursday or Friday."
"I've waited long enough—" I start to say, but he cuts me off, voice snapping like a whip.
"Sloane, I forbid it," he says, sharp and severe. "Promise me you won’t do something stupid."
I grip my phone tight, anger pulsing through me.
"Thanks for the support, Rafe."
I throw his name back at him, sarcasm biting.
He tries to keep talking, his voice turning softer, like he’s backpedaling. But I don’t want to hear it. I hang up, already slipping my phone into my pocket.
His voice echoes in my head, more forceful by the second. Promise me. Promise me. Promise. My jaw clenches.
Stubborn beats smart, and my family’s reminded me of that plenty. I grab my bag and yank on a coat. If I hesitate, I’ll overthink myself into a puddle. Better to move. Act.
Outside, the cold air pricks my cheeks. My pulse rattles in my ears as I weave through commuters, their steely morning faces and armor-like bags oblivious to my mission. I slip past them onto the subway platform, the train’s roar echoing my own determination.
This building is five stories of cracked concrete, barred windows, and grime, practically the poster child for this neighborhood. Everything looks gray and uncaring. I get a quick jolt of fear—how many times has Maddy stood here?—but my anger chases it away. Ethan is my only lead. I have to talk to him, see his face when I ask about her.
The bell gives a rough, grating “BREEEEP.”
My hands are cold and stiff, so I pull my jacket tighter and wait. The street is empty except for a distant siren and the faint taste of city dust in the air. I picture Maddy here, trying to catch her breath in this polluted haze. What did she feel? How long was she tangled up with Ethan before things went sideways? If I could read her fear, maybe I’d get a clearer picture. A stronger lead. I shiver again. My coat is doing its best, but winter wins.
I should wait for Rafaele or Lucas, but I’m done waiting. Done pretending I can ignore the urgency. I need to look Ethan in the eye and demand the truth. Demand something. Anything. Besides, he was Maddy’s boyfriend, right? Maybe he wants to solve this case as much as I do.
Before I’m ready, the door buzzes. I give one last glance down the street, my heart doing a drum solo. Nothing moves. I’m a bundle of nerves, heart in overdrive, imagining too many things at once, fear, anger, regret, all playing a cruel game of hopscotch inside me. But determination wins out, and I rush into the building before I can stop myself.
The door slams behind me, and the sound reverberates down the narrow hallway. I picture it snapping shut behind Maddy, too, giving me more chills than the cold. The place stinks of damp cement and stale cigarettes, and I gag on the smell. The thought of her breathing this day in and day out makes my chest hurt. The walls are a dingy yellow, streaked with grime and watermarks, and they press in on me like they’re questioning my right to be here. It’s shabbier than the worst dorm I’ve ever seen.
I grip my phone in my pocket, ready to reach for help, but then desperation nudges me forward. I have nothing to lose except my wait-and-see attitude, and I lost that a long time ago. I begin to walk, my own footfalls joining the heavy pounding in my chest.
This is like a different world, one where everything is old and used up. As I climb the stairs to the second floor, my own steps echo around me, bouncing back with ghostly insistence. Then I hear another set, a slow approach that makes me tense.
A woman opens the door to apartment 210: bleach-blonde hair piled high, a scarlet tank top clinging to her bones. Her eyes, rimmed with heavy liner, narrow at me like I’m a stray cat.
“Who’re you?” she asks in a low, raspy smoker’s voice.
“Sloane,” I say, trying for confidence. “I’m looking for Ethan.”
She laughs, a short bark.
“Well, well. The dickhead does have friends,” she says, waving me in. “He’s this way.”
Inside, cables and cigarette butts litter the floor like someone dumped trash confetti. A space heater hums while distant music throbs, low and sinister.
The blonde leads me past a grimy kitchen, countertops crowded with empty takeout boxes, into the living room. Three guys lounge on sofas, eyes locked on me, unblinking, sizing me up. I stand tall anyway.
