“Mateo…” I push off the ground, stepping closer to the bars, closer to him.
“Stay back,” he says, taking a step back himself. “Adrian did the right thing. Don’t come near me.”
My face crumbles and I don’t listen. I push right up against the bars, looking at him through them, wanting to make a point, to prove something. “I didn’t do this.”
His eyes are cold as he steps closer to the bars, slowly, giving me time to change my mind and back up. I want to—his deliberate slowness is scaring the shit out of me, particularly when combined with the chill in his eyes. This isn’t the man who had midnight ice cream with me; this is the man who killed Beth.
It’s too late though. He’s on the other side of the bars, close enough to reach out a finger and touch me. He doesn’t, though. He keeps his hands wrapped around the bars, squeezing them until his knuckles are white.
“Why did you take that goddamn necklace?”
“Because I wanted you,” I answer honestly. “I still want you. This is a mistake. I don’t know how, but there—”
His hands release the bars and push through before I can react, and suddenly his hands are around my neck and I can’t breathe. My fingers fly to his hands, panic making it even harder to breathe, and my vision starts to cloud as he squeezes my windpipe. I can’t breathe, all I can emit are these pathetic little gasping noises. A tear travels down my cheek, hitting his hand.
He releases me and I move back, away from him, sinking to the floor, trying to breathe.
Without another word, he bends to retrieve the phone and storms down the hall, leaving me by myself, sobbing on the floor and gasping for breath.
Chapter Eighteen
I go between wanting Mateo to come back and hoping he stays away about a million times from the moment he leaves until I fall asleep on the cold, hard floor.
“Meg.”
My eyes open, puffy from crying and not enough sleep. It takes me a second to figure out where I am, and another few blessed seconds before I remember why.
It all comes crashing down on top of me like an ocean of bad, but I resist drowning in it. I have to have hope. Hope that this will all get sorted out soon and the next time I see Mateo, he’ll be wrapping me in a hug and tenderly touching my neck in silent apology for the moment of brutality.
This is all a big mistake, and Mateo has to see that eventually.
Right?
“Meg.”
I turn my head toward the bars, easing up to a sitting position. My back is killing me now, a weird sore spot on my left shoulder blade. This sucks.
It’s Francesca on the other side of the bars this time.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing away from me, then back. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I just…” She steps forward, sliding her hand between the slot in the door that’s big enough to fit a plate, should the warden decide you deserve food.
I stand, walking over to retrieve the wrapped cloth napkin she offers. She slides a bottle of water through next, then a banana.
“I made you a sandwich. I thought you might be hungry,” she tells me.
I’m starving, but so sick with anxiety that I can’t imagine eating. “Thank you,” I tell her.
She nods, tucking her dark hair behind her ear and looking anywhere but at me. “I didn’t think he’d put you down here.”
“He didn’t. Adrian did.”
For a few seconds, she doesn’t say anything. Then piercing the silence—and my optimism—she says, “Adrian gave him the key.”
The implications of that are staggering.
Adrian has determined I’m guilty.
I sink to the floor, setting aside the food and dropping my head between my knees, focusing on breathing. I feel like I’m going to be sick, but there’s nothing in my stomach, so it’s just an impotent heave trying to work its way up my throat and out of my body.
Voice a little shaky, Francesca adds, “But he’s had it since before dinner and he hasn’t come down yet.”
“He thinks I’m fucking someone else. He thinks I’m here trying to kill him for my fucking rival mob boyfriend, Francesca. He thinks I’m Beth; he’s going to kill me.”
“He’s not going to kill you,” she says firmly, needing to believe it. “He’s not. Just… hang in there, okay?”
“How did this happen?” It’s not like I expect her to have an answer, but I just need to share the injustice of my situation with someone else. I’m Anne Boleyn, and he’s sulking around the castle, about to take my head off.
Finally Francesca asks, “Were you going to kill him for Antonio?”
My eyes close at the only accusation I’ve heard lately that has any merit. “He threatened to kill Lily if I didn’t.”