Chapter 3

THREE

Sabella

Angelo still dominates my mind a week later when I visit Mattie in Stellenbosch. Mom is there for the weekend. Dad couldn't make it because he's drowning in work.

When I called my dad after the incident in the library, he didn't mention anything about the accident. I couldn't ask him without confessing how I learned about the news. As I can't explain Roch's presence, I had to contend myself with what I could find on media sites.

Apparently, the late Mrs. Russo lost control of the car she drove and plunged down a cliff. Both mother and daughter were killed on impact.

I dared to bring it up in a conversation with Ryan, saying that I saw the news, but he told me in his typical stoic manner not to make it my business, and then he changed the subject.

Angelo never replied to my message, not that I expected him to. That wasn't the objective. The double funeral was only two days ago. I took the bracelet they'd given me for my sixteenth birthday from my jewelry box. I haven't worn it since my seventeenth birthday, since the day Angelo betrayed me. No. Since the day I discovered he betrayed me. He'd been betraying me long before then. He manipulated me right from the start. He used me to steal incriminating evidence from our house to blackmail Dad into signing over a part of his business to the Russo family. I don't know why I haven't returned the bracelet to Angelo. After everything that happened, I should've, but now is hardly the time.

"You look far away," Mattie says, sinking into one of her art deco chairs in a sunny spot in the lounge and resting a hand over her stomach.

Attempting a smile, I say, "I was just thinking. How are you feeling?"

"Ugh." Her grin is rueful. "Do you really want to know?"

Mom enters with a tray of rooibos tea and rusks that she puts on the coffee table. "The nausea will disappear at the end of the first trimester."

"If I'm lucky," Mattie says. "Celeste was queasy for the whole nine months."

"Celeste just wanted sympathy from Ryan."

"Mom," I say. "That's not nice, and you know it's not true."

Mattie laughs. "Well, if that was the case, it worked. She only had to say the word craving, and Ryan jumped."

"Do you blame him?" I ask. "He's crazy about Celeste. Jared must be the same with you, Mattie."

She sighs. "He tries."

"Yup. I didn't exactly peg him as the romantic type."

"He'll go to the store if I tell him to," Mattie says. "He just won't take the initiative himself."

My mom hands Mattie a cup of tea. "When I was pregnant, your father never pampered me. He was proud, of course, but in those days, men weren't as involved as they are today. Women just had to get on with it while men built their empires and played golf."

"Dad isn't that bad," Mattie says. "He's always been very present in our lives."

"With you kids, yes." Mom sniffs. "I only regret one thing, and that's not making a life for myself. When your father and I got married, I sacrificed having a career so that he could start his business. Now that all of you left the house, I'm sorry I never did anything for myself."

Mattie sips her tea. "What job would you have chosen?"

Mom sighs and turns a wistful gaze to the window. "I always wanted to be a pediatrician, but it's too late for that."

"How about taking up natural medicine?" I ask. "You can get a diploma in four years. One of Colin's friends is doing a correspondence course, and he's loving it."

"I'm fifty years old." Mom picks up her cup, lifting a pinky in the air. "That ship, I'm afraid, has sailed."

"There's always voluntary work in the medical field," Mattie says. "There's no shortage of possibilities in the area."

Mom shakes her head. "It's not the same."

"What about you, Mattie?" I ask to change the subject. Continuing with the discussion will only end up with Mom becoming depressed. She'll make a decision that works for her when the time is right. She always does. Regurgitating things she can't change doesn't help.

"What about me?" Mattie asks.

"You're so young. Doesn't a baby at twenty scare you?"

Her smile is serene. "Jared and I want to be young with our children. I'm happy being a housewife, and I'll be ecstatic being a mommy."

"I didn't mean it in a negative way." My mind jumps to that night with Angelo and the wrongness of what we shared. "I just can't imagine being tied down when there's a whole world to explore."

"Everyone's ambition is different." My sister shrugs. "It doesn't mean one is better than the other."

"Of course not," I say quickly.

Mattie and my mom launch into a discussion about the baby shower arrangements. I should be more interested, but I can't help how my mind wanders. I worry about my dad. He's been so closed-off and distant after Ryan's birthday. Like Mom, he's more absent from home. I imagine him sitting alone in his study, going over his accounts or balancing his checkbook. Will he eat a proper lunch if Doris or my mom isn't there to cook? He'll probably just munch on a few pretzels.

A wave of tenderness washes over me. I have a sudden desire to be with him, to sit on the sofa with a blanket over my knees and a book on my lap while a fire crackles in the fireplace and his presence warms the room.

Mattie and my mom don't seem to notice when I stand and take my phone from my bag. I walk onto the terrace, soaking up the welcome winter sun as I dial my dad.

"Hey," he says. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I thought you're spending time with Mattie and your mother."

"I am." I lean against a pillar. "They're discussing baby shower stuff."

"Ah. Try to give some input. It's important to your sister."

"Sure," I say half-heartedly.

"Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

"I just wanted to check up on you."

He chuckles. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm old enough to take care of myself."

"I know you don't eat when you're alone."

"I'm at the office. I'll pick up a frozen meal on my way home. Happy?"

I laugh. "You're working too hard."

"It comes with the territory."

"Are you there by yourself?"

"What do you mean?" he asks, his voice scraping in his throat.

"Is someone helping you at least?"

"I don't make the staff work on weekends. You know that."

Biting my lip, I consider what to say without making it sound as if I'm babying him.

"I've got to go, Bella. I still have a ton of reports I'd like to finish before tonight."

"Okay," I say, for some reason reluctant to let him go.

"Love you, darling," he says.

"I love you too, Dad."

The line goes dead.

I catch a glimpse of Mattie and my mom through the window. They're conversing with their heads close together, no doubt talking about a color scheme and baby shower themes. They don't need me. They're happy doing this together.

Making a quick decision, I go back inside. "I'm going to see Dad."

Mom lifts her head. "What about your tea?"

"Sorry." I kiss her cheek. "I'm just a little homesick."

"Now?" Mattie asks.

"It's early. I'll get there before dark. I can sleep over and drive back tomorrow."

"It's far to drive alone," Mom says.

"You drive the same road all the time, Mom. I'll send you a message when I arrive to let you know I'm safe."

"All right," Mom says slowly. "But if I don't hear from you by four o'clock at the latest, I'm sending a search party."

"Do you mind if I leave Pirate here?" I ask Mattie. "I'll pick him up on the way back. He doesn't like traveling in the car that much."

"Sure," she says. "Leave his food out in the kitchen."

"Thanks." I kiss her cheek. "I appreciate it." Remembering Roch's visit at the library, I hesitate. I hate that he's still following me. "Do you mind if I take your car? You're not planning on going anywhere, are you?" I grab the first excuse that pops into my head. "I forgot to charge mine. It won't make it to George."

"You shouldn't forget to charge your car," Mom chides. "What if you have an emergency and you're stuck?"

"No problem," Mattie says, coming to my rescue. "The key is in my bag."

I shoot her a grateful smile before escaping. Mattie's car is parked in the garage. The windows are tinted. To be on the safe side, I bundle my hair under a cap and nick Mattie's sunglasses from her bag. This way, Roch won't recognize me, and I can get away without worrying about having him on my tail.

After throwing a change of clothes into a bag and giving Pirate a cuddle, I hit the road.

In George, I stop for fish and chips at my dad's favorite fast-food restaurant. It's only late afternoon, but we can pretend it's dinner time. I'll surprise him at the office. He'll be happy that he doesn't have to nuke a ready-made meal from the supermarket when he gets home.

It's freezing when I get out in front of his office building. The wind that blows from the mountain cuts through my jeans and lightweight parka jacket. My nose and fingers feel frozen. I should've taken a scarf and gloves. In my rush to get here, I didn't even pack a beanie.

Grabbing the paper bag with the food, I walk with a brisk pace to the door. The guard that usually mans the entrance is absent. I don't visit Dad at the office often—very seldom, actually—but he's a stickler for security. He has guards on duty twenty-four-seven. Maybe he decided it's safe enough in George or that the alarm is adequate protection.

I climb the three steps to the double French doors. Edwards Imports and Exports is situated in a historical building with a stone fa?ade, arched windows with red metal frames, and a black iron rooster on the chimney. The building was used as the province trade headquarters until a century ago. After falling into ruin, my dad bought and restored it. The building stands almost right on the street, flanked by two giant oak trees. A large green lawn and a parking lot with an ornate iron fence stretch out at the back. The gate is locked on weekends, which is why I parked in the street.

The light on the intercom panel next to the doors is dead. I push the call button to test it, but the bell doesn't ring. The power isn't down, because a light burns in the reception area. Weird. I feel the door handle. The door swings inward soundlessly.

It's not like Dad not to lock the doors. Then again, he's been more forgetful of late. Mom says he sometimes forgets to set the house alarm before going to bed. He's not getting younger, but he's not old enough to be that negligent yet.

"Dad?" I call, taking the stairs to the upper level two by two.

His office spreads over half of the first floor. The spacious room boasts blackwood floors, a corner chimney, a crystal chandelier, and a genuine nineteenth century pressed ceiling. The wide windows frame the Outeniqua Mountains. Together with a skylight, they let in plenty of light. The decoration is a mashup of steampunk and factory-loft styles. The whole building is a work of art.

"Dad?" I say again, quickening my steps down the hallway.

Overhead lights with industrial trumpet shades throw circles on the teak floor. The bulbs reflect in the stained-glass wall that gives a view of the inner courtyard below.

"Surprise," I say, sticking my head around the doorframe. "I brought?—"

The scene that greets me cuts the rest of my sentence short. The food drops from my hand. The bottom of the bag breaks. Fries and packets of condiments scatter around my feet. Those objects I can process. Not the blood and gray matter on the floor. Not my dad lying in that puddle. Not Santino Russo towering over him. And not Angelo crouched next to my dad, wearing black leather gloves and holding a gun in his hand.