The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

Christian rattled off an address, and my heart rate spiked.

“Just a warning, Ace. She’s not alone.”

His words hit me like a p

unch to the chest, and my grip tightened on the phone.

“Got it.”

“I think you have to pay for love with bitter tears.”

—Édith Piaf

“YOU KNOW,”—SEBASTIAN SCRATCHED HIS jaw—“I don’t know much about New York City, but my guess is this neighborhood isn’t one of the best.”

He sat beside me on a green bench that was sticky with spilled soda and other things I didn’t want to think about. If there ever was a neon sign flashing “steal from me” it was him, in his crisp gray suit and gold watch and cufflinks that sparkled in the sun. I’d dressed the way I had for a reason, but it was pointless now with him stuck to my side. I wasn’t that concerned for my safety, however. He might look preppy and ostentatious, but the darkness of his profession reflected in his eyes whenever the light hit them just right.

He sat back against the bench. “So, what do we do now? Just wait?”

“Yes.”

Across the trash-littered street sat a row of rundown townhouses. Barred lower windows, chipping paint, and sagging chain-link fences. My focus was on the gray one far enough away we were fairly hidden by a few trees, but close enough I could still make out the front door.

It had taken thirty minutes to find the right house, the entirety being filled with thoughts from seven months ago. I wished I could say my memory of him was poignant and unforgettable, but in truth, he was just a shadow in my mind, the only thread holding him together, guilt.

A small park sat off to our right, and Sebastian watched as a group of boys pretended to shoot each other with finger guns.

“Maybe they could come work for you and my husband,” I said.

He laughed. “I’ll give them a few years.” Resting his arm behind me, he said, “You do know he’s going to try to kill me, don’t you?”

“Why did you insist on coming if you believed that?” I shook my head in disbelief, but a cold sweat drifted through me. “I won’t tell him you were involved.”

He let out a breath of amusement, his gaze following a cop car that drove past us suspiciously slow. “Oh, Elena, he already knows.”

The hair on the back of my neck rose.

Movement caught in my periphery, and I fought not to shift to the edge of the bench. I didn’t want to bring more attention to myself when I already had a Colombian drug lord sitting next to me.

“Looks like we got a bite,” Sebastian said.

She appeared to be in her fifties, with graying blond hair swept into a bun at the nape of her neck and a haggard expression that only hard work could create. Walking toward us from the other side of the street, she wore blue scrubs, but I knew she wasn’t in the medical field. She washed laundry at a local nursing home from four a.m. to noon, and then worked at a gas station until midnight.

She was blonde, like him, but that was the only similarity I could see. Though, to be truthful, I’d mostly forgotten what he looked like. My fingernails dug into my palms as she walked up her porch steps while rooting for her keys in her purse. She halted and glanced at her feet. I held my breath as she bent down and picked up the green money bag.

I remembered only pieces of that weekend. The whirring sound in my ears as my uncle shot him in the head and the warm spray of blood against my face had filtered into the other memories and blurred them in red. But I did remember how much he worked: three jobs and longer hours than I had ever imagined was possible. Most of the time, I was alone in his friend’s apartment, who’d gone to jail for petty theft, while he went to work to support his mother and a younger sister still in high school.

He wanted his sister to go to college, not to live the same life as him, working hours and hours and never making enough. For families out here, it was like a merry-go-round that could never be stopped. What I did remember was blood, lifeless eyes, and how passionately he spoke about his family. He would have done anything for them, and I couldn’t sit by and do nothing when I had the means to help.

She unzipped the money bag. Her purse dropped to the porch as a hand flew to cover her mouth. There was fifty-thousand dollars cash in that bag. It was all I could get from the bank on such short notice, and even then, probably just because of my last name. It was still legally Abelli, and I wondered what they would have done for me if it were Russo. The rest of the money was via a cashier’s check, and I was going out on a limb hoping she would cash it quickly. Nico could shut down my bank account fast, as well as get the transfer reversed if he claimed fraud, though that might take longer.

First, she pulled out the ring, and I rubbed my bare finger before she put it back in the bag. Next was the note I’d written. My throat felt thick as she unfolded it. After a moment, her shoulders shook with sobs and she slid downward to sit on the steps. A tear ran down my cheek and I wiped it away. I didn’t deserve to grieve with her; it had all been my fault.

I’d known his name for months now. There was no getting past it when I had to research his death so I could find out his mother’s information. But we had a deal: he wouldn’t tell me his name until I told him mine. And as he wasn’t alive to ever hear mine, I’d pretend to never know his.

A few minutes later, she stood, wiped her cheeks, and went inside.

Some pressure drifted away like a bird on my shoulder. I couldn’t give her son back, but I could ease both hers and her daughter’s futures. Stop the merry-go-round so they could get off before it spun again for the rest of their neighborhood.