We end up going back to Enzo’s apartment.
It’s only about ten blocks away from where I live, which I guess makes sense if he was taking on the role of my secret bodyguard. The apartment is even smaller than mine, just a studio with one room that serves as the kitchen, bedroom, living room, and dining area. Thankfully, there is a separate bathroom. It’s a far cry from the Garricks’ penthouse or even Brock’s spacious two-bedroom apartment.
When we get inside, Enzo tosses his keys on a small table next to the door, then he goes to the kitchenette, where he turns on the water and splashes it on his face. I wonder if he’s as tired as I am. I feel a strange combination of tired and wired. I didn’t get enough sleep last night, but anxiety about the police coming for me has got my heart racing at all times.
“You sit down,” he tells me. “You want beer?” “It’s barely eleven in the morning.”
“It has been a long morning.” That’s for sure.
I decide against the beer though. I plop down on a futon that looks like he probably got it from the curb—it’s even slightly worse than mine. Most of his furniture looks like it might have been garbage in the recent past.
“What are you doing for work?” I ask him. He had a decent job before he left, but I’m sure they haven’t been holding it for him.
“I get job at a landscaping company.” He lifts a shoulder. “Is okay. Pays bills.”
I look down at his phone, which he has put down on a coffee table. “What is your guy going to find out?”
“I am not sure. Maybe a prison record for Russell. Something we could bring to the police, and they could check the apartment for his fingerprints. I am sure they found unfamiliar prints at the penthouse, so it would help if we could match them—anything to take the heat off you.”
“What if it’s not enough?”
“I am sure we will find something.” “What if we don’t?”
“Trust me,” Enzo says, “there is a way. You will not go to jail for something that you did not do.”
As if on cue, Enzo’s phone starts ringing. He picks it up and leaps off the futon to take the call in the kitchenette. I crane my head to watch his expression, which gives away little. Neither do his responses, which mostly consist of “uh-huh” and “okay.” At one point, he grabs a pen and scribbles something down on a paper towel.
“Grazie,” he tells the person on the other line before he puts his phone down on the kitchen counter.
For a moment, he just stands there, looking down at the paper towel. “Well?” I finally say.
“No prison record,” he says. “Record is clean.” My heart sinks. “Okay…”
“I got the address of a second residence,” he says. “Is at a lake about two or three hours north of the city. Maybe… maybe this is where he is staying.”
I jump off the futon and grab my purse. “So let’s go there!” “And we do what?”
I walk over to where he is standing in the kitchenette. I look down at the address on the napkin. I vaguely know where it is. Google Maps will lead me there. “Get the truth out of him.”
“We know the truth.” He tugs the paper towel out of my reach. “We need the police to know it.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I am not sure.” He rubs his eyes with the balls of his hand. “Do not worry. We will come up with an answer. I just need to think.”
Great. And while he is thinking, the police are busy building their case against me. “I think we should go out there.”
“And I think it will make things worse.”
I don’t know what to think, but I am itching to do something right now. Because the police aren’t sitting around in a kitchenette at the moment, mulling things over.
Before I can attempt to persuade Enzo, my phone rings inside my purse. I pull it out, and my breath catches in my throat when I see the name on the screen.
“It’s Brock,” I say.
