I’ve got to do something.
My own jealousy—that was something I could get past. Eventually. But I can’t stand by if Olive is putting someone else’s life in danger. Yes, Joel was an ass to me last time we saw each other, but I can’t pretend he’s some guy I bumped into on the subway. I loved him. I can’t let her destroy his life. Or take his life.
So that’s why I decide to go to Olive’s apartment.
The weather has been especially cold, so I bundle up in my boots and warmest coat before I leave the apartment. And there’s one other thing I do that I can’t quite explain. Something that I know I may later regret.
I take a knife from the kitchen and drop it in my purse.
After all, Olive owes money to very bad people. It isn’t terrible to have some protection, is it?
My heart is thumping audibly the entire subway ride into Manhattan. What am I doing? Why am I going to such lengths to protect Joel? He had no problem walking away from me. If I were in danger, would he do the same for me?
Honestly, I think he would.
Olive’s apartment building is three blocks from the subway. It’s not as nice as the place where Joel and I used to live, but it’s nicer than what she can afford, given her financial woes. Then again, people don’t get deep in debt by spending responsibly.
I approach the locked door to the building just as a middle-aged woman is leaving. I flash a smile at her. “Good evening,” I say brightly.
The woman returns the smile as she holds the door open for me. “Good evening.”
I don’t look like a criminal. If she knew I had a knife in my purse, she might have behaved differently, but she doesn’t know.
I take the stairs up to Olive’s apartment. I know exactly where it is.
I’m ashamed to admit, this isn’t the first time I’ve been here.
And then I’m at her door. I’m staring at her peephole, my hands shaking even though the hallway is much warmer than outside. I lift my finger and press it against the doorbell.
Then I wait.
After a few moments, I hear the locks turning. The door swings open, and there she is, dressed in skinny jeans and a sweater. The olive-
skinned beauty my ex-boyfriend started dating not long after he said sayonara to me. She won his heart—you might even say she brain- washed him. And now she may claim his life.
“Hello, Francesca,” I say to this woman.
Francesca, aka Olive, stares at me, her eyes unkind. She doesn’t smile. She never smiles, as far as I’ve seen. When I look at her, she radiates evil. I know that sounds crazy, but she does.
I’ve witnessed her in her restaurant, Angela’s Ristorante, bossing around the staff. Their unhappiness shows itself in the food, which is why the restaurant is failing. They hate her, even though she’s beautiful and a great cook. Even better than me—I know my way around the kitchen, but I’m not a culinary school trained chef like she is. My day job is as an office manager. I wonder how much culinary school set her back. No wonder she’s so deep in debt.
Francesca. If I’ve ever had a mortal enemy, it’s her.
I step inside the apartment and she regards me coolly. She folds her arms across her chest and stands up an inch straighter, as if she didn’t already tower over me.
“Hello, Anna,” she says.
