“That was before six armed men delivered a key linked to your grandmother.”
“I don’t even know if it is linked to her.”
“You recognized the number.”
The certainty in his voice made me angry because he was right.
“I’m not staying here.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to offer you a ride.”
I folded my arms.
“And an escort?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“Anthony.”
Maria looked between us.
“You sound married.”
Both of us turned toward her.
A spark of amusement appeared in her eyes.
“It was only an observation.”
Anthony rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“I’ll drive you.”
“You have people for that.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then send one of them.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see the box.”
At least he was honest.
I stared at him.
“This is my family.”
“And somehow it may also be mine.”
The words settled between us.
Maria reached for her soup, but her hands trembled too badly to hold the spoon.
I moved toward her automatically.
“Let me.”
She gave me a grateful smile.
I sat beside her and lifted the spoon.
Anthony watched us.
Something in his expression shifted—not suspicion, not calculation, but the quiet ache of someone who had spent years fearing the loss of the person in front of him.
“How long have the tremors been this bad?” I asked.
“They come and go.”
“Do you take anything besides the pills you had tonight?”
“Three other medications.”
“Were they prescribed by the same doctor?”
“No.”
I glanced at Anthony.
“Has anyone reviewed them together?”
He frowned.
“Her doctors know what she takes.”
“That doesn’t always mean they’ve looked closely at how the medications interact.”
Maria accepted another spoonful of soup.
“You still sound like a nurse.”
“I’m not one.”
“Not yet,” she said.
I looked down.
Anthony noticed.
“Mama said you were studying.”
“I left school.”
“Why?”
“That isn’t relevant.”
“It may be to her care.”
“You have access to every doctor in New York. You don’t need advice from a waitress who didn’t finish nursing school.”
Maria’s voice remained gentle.
“But perhaps I need advice from Sophie.”
I met her eyes.
She had understood the difference.
People had probably spent years treating her as Anthony Russo’s mother before treating her as Maria.
“I’ll write down a list of questions for her doctor,” I said. “That’s all I can responsibly do.”
Anthony nodded.
“Thank you.”
There was no command in the words.
Only gratitude.
I fed Maria several more spoonfuls before she leaned back.
“I’m tired,” she admitted.
Anthony crossed the room immediately.
“I’ll take you upstairs.”
Maria caught my hand.
“Come tomorrow.”
I hesitated.
“For tea,” she said. “Without guns this time.”
Anthony gave her a look.
“I cannot guarantee the state of the entire city.”
“Then at least guarantee cake.”
He helped her stand.
At the doorway, she turned back to me.
“Your grandmother saved more than lives at Mercy House, Sophie. Remember that before you judge whatever you find.”
Then she let Anthony lead her upstairs.
I stood alone in the sitting room, staring at the photograph.
Saved more than lives.
The sentence followed me all the way across Brooklyn.
Anthony drove.
No escort sat beside us, but a black vehicle remained two cars behind.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing.
“Precaution,” he said.
“Do you always have someone following you?”
“Almost always.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It becomes ordinary.”
“Things shouldn’t become ordinary just because they happen often.”
He looked at me briefly.
“You sound like my mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.”
Rain blurred the storefronts outside.
For several blocks, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “You dropped out because of your grandmother’s illness.”
It was not phrased as a question.
“Yes.”
