When her soft plump lips part I’m snapped back to reality and I realize I’m just gawking at her.
“I saw you crying,” I explain and her cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“Oh… My… I didn’t know anyone else was out here,” she answers and tries to compose herself.
“Did someone die?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then whatever it is that happened can’t be that bad. Right?”
“I guess. But maybe somethings are worse than death.”
Her words surprise me. It’s not often I meet someone who openly shares such thoughts or feelings in such a blatant way.
“Have you ever had someone die for you?” I ask and more tears run down her cheeks.
She nods and her eyes brim with a wealth of pain. Pain that could only come from seeing some serious type of shit, and having it happen to you.
“Is the thing worse than death?” I counter.
“No…” She shakes her head.
“Then… it can’t be that bad.”
I’m aware this conversation of ours has jumped to a level not really acceptable for strangers.
She knows it too, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that sparks as she looks at me and nods her agreement.
I stare back at her taking in her presence, a million things race through my mind, but I wonder what sent her out here. What could have upset her so much for her to cry like this.
What could be worse than death?
People say some things are a worse punishment, but death is the end. For those left behind, it’s pain beyond anything anyone could describe.
“I suppose you’re right,” she replies. Her eyes go to the little origami flower in my hand and her face lights up. “What’s that?”
I raise it and offer a small smile. “Something to do.”
Her smile widens. “It’s pretty.”
Suddenly I find myself pushing my hand out to hand her the flower. “Take it. I can make another.”
“Thank you. I don’t have anything like this.”
“Now you do.”
The echo of a door has her looking back in the direction she came.
Dmitri steps out, lingers on the top step of the stairs and gazes ahead at us. The sight of him makes her back go ramrod straight. A sign she’s afraid of him, very afraid.
I bite down hard on my back teeth and hope he doesn’t come closer.
He’d recognize me straightaway. At about forty feet away, he’d never guess it was me. I have the element of not being in LA on my side and the fact there’s no way Mortimer or any of the Circle members would know the D’Agostinos are here in Rhode Island. Thankfully, he hangs back.
Isabella returns her focus to me as if remembering her manners and gives me a little smile. I can see she’s shaking though.
“I should go back to work,” she says, cautiously. “Thank you for your kindness.”