Chapter 13: Sunday Gravy

I didn't sleep.

At six in the morning I was at the kitchen table with my phone, my laptop and a cold cup of coffee.

Dina came down in Elio's men's sweatpants, rolled four times at the waist.

"You look like you're planning a murder."

"A trial."

"Same face."

"Somebody told Trent's lawyer where we were," I said. "Forty minutes. Who knew?"

"You. Me. Elio. Tino. The prosecutor." Dina poured coffee. "Nonna, if she listens at doors, which she does."

She reached across me for the sugar and stopped.

She was looking at my phone.

"Vi. What's that little face at the top of your map?"

I looked.

It was Trent's face.

Under it, in gray letters, it said: Sharing location.

He'd set it up the week we got engaged.

So he'd always know I got home safe from late surgeries.

I'd thought it was sweet.

"Oh my God," Dina said. "The clinic at three in the morning. The federal building. He's been watching you on a map like a pizza delivery."

My hands went cold.

He had known where I was every minute since the wedding.

Which meant he knew where the lake house was too.

I pressed Stop Sharing.

"I'm going to throw up," I said.

"Later. First beat the lawyer."

At ten I was standing in the trauma bay at MetroHealth with a surgeon who didn't like me.

The trauma surgeon was a tall, gray woman who had taken more bullets out of Clevelanders than anyone alive.

She had my surgical notes in her hand.

Behind her stood four residents in navy scrubs, smirking.

"A veterinarian," she said.

"Yes."

"Who removed a .38 from a human chest on a dog table."

"Yes."

"Tell me what you did. Every step. Don't look at the notes."

I told her, step by step, with the time of each one, and my voice stayed steady.

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