Page 22 of The Woman on the Jury

“It was closing time,” I told him, having decided that my best course of action was just to pretend that everything was status quo, so he would allow himself to stay and get better, not be stubborn and sign himself out against doctor’s orders, only to go back and, what? Get hurt again? No, I wouldn’t allow that. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, they gave me the good stuff,” he said, giving me a bleary-eyed smile.

“Did you eat lunch?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. They had tapioca!” he said, thrilled at the delicacy. He was a man of simple tastes, and he didn’t allow dessert, save for fruit, most nights.

“Food for the soul,” I told him, patting his hand. “I did some studying in my, uhm, free time today,” I told him.

Then we launched into industry talk. I liked the books, but I learned so much more from hearing my grandfather talk about it. Facts came alive in his words. I figured maybe that had something to do with having grown up listening to him tell me bedtime stories. This during the time when my mom, brother, and I were staying with him to get away from my father.

Those stories were rich with history but told in fantastical ways, with thrills and intrigue. And very detailed accounts of the art, swords, and statues. Even the rugs. As an adult, I realized that it was him weaving his own love into the stories.

So as he told me about Hellenistic sculptures, I could suddenly see the finer details in the fabrics, in the bodies, compared to that of the classical style. I would no longer see the image ofThe Boxer at Restas curly-haired and freakishly black-eyed. I could see the cords of his muscles, the shadows of the wraps on his hands, the little cuts in his face, even the way his, well, cock and balls sat on the stone.

My grandfather never shied away from talking about genitals. I guess since classic art was so full of it, he had learned to be able to see and speak of it without the embarrassment that many of us felt.

By the time we were done discussing the Hellenistic era, he was already starting to drift off, so I excused myself, ready to make my way across town to the hotel.

At first, I’d wanted to stay in one close to the hospital, but my paranoia had me choosing one further away, so I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder.

I ducked into a taxi right outside the hospital. Again, paranoid, and thinking I’d be harder to follow in a taxi, even if it killed me to spend even the few dollars on a ride when I could have easily walked.

I ducked into the bodega on the corner, grabbing a toothbrush, paste, and a bar of soap, resigning myself to wearing my clothes again tomorrow, and just… wearing my undies to sleep in, then checked into the hotel.

It wasn’t much to write home about. A dark, but clean hotel meant to look more upscale than it was. And to tourists who might not know better, it likely even succeeded.

I’d been right about my room. A full-sized bed dominated the space, and the bathroom was somehow even more cramped than the one in my apartment. And, yes, my view was of the alley.

But it was clean and safe, I reminded myself.

Safe was what mattered most.

So I could finally get some rest.

I barely got a chance to brush my teeth and rush through a shower before I fell into the bed.

Despite all the fear and uncertainty, I was asleep within moments.

And if it wasn’t for my phone dinging on the nightstand, I probably would have slept straight through.

I reached for it with closed eyes, having to force my heavy lids open to blink at the screen, seeing a text from an unfamiliar number.

Get rest tonight. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. - CC

It didn’t take a genius to know who CC was.

Cosimo Costa.

So I guess I was wrong.

I was at least somewhere at the top of his priority list if he was going to make time for me again so soon.

Hope bloomed as I said a silent prayer that I could get back to my life sooner rather than later.

But it wasn’t hope that had a strange, warm feeling coursing through me as I drifted back off to sleep.

Oh, no.

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