Chapter Twelve
Beth – Six Months Later
I lowered myself into the window seat of my apartment and gazed out over the street. The sun was just beginning to rise – I had about an hour before I had to start getting ready for work – and I shivered, hoping the sun would have a chance to warm the frozen streets before I had to leave.
I’d been living in my new apartment for a little over five months. Heather had worked with a broker and found it after searching for just under a week – impossible by the standards of New York City. Living in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, wasn’t the most glamorous of places. But I didn’t mind – it was a safe, secure home that Heather and I had worked tirelessly to make ours.
After Michael’s death, things really spun out of control. I’d thought that Douglas had been bluffing when he’d threatened to throw me out of the condo. But the day after the funeral, Douglas and a team of thugs had showed up at my door and told me that I had twenty-four hours to get my stuff packed and moved. In retrospect, it’s kind of lucky that I was still stunned with grief at the time – if Douglas had tried that now, I would have ripped him a new asshole. But six months ago, Michael’s death was still fresh. And I should have known that Douglas would always keep his word against me, no matter what.
Getting evicted had been a blow. I’d called Heather and we’d spent the whole day packing boxes and borrowing the neighbor’s car to move them into storage. I’d thought my situation was totally helpless – now that Michael was gone, what kind of an ally would I find in the rest of the world? But Heather had gone above and beyond to make sure things worked out for the two of us. Now, we were closer than ever.
Finding a job hadn’t exactly been easy. I’ve been out of university for five years and I hadn’t worked a real job, or anything other than meager part-time work. I kept seeing rejection email after rejection email – every single hiring manager said I “lacked the necessary experience.” It really pissed me off. How the hell was I supposed to get that experience in the first place if no one would hire me?
Eventually, I’d sucked it up and gone door to door, asking people if they needed a new receptionist. I’d hardly expected it to work, but I’d finally landed a job working for a used car dealership in the Bronx. Getting to work every day was an adventure…I’d started carrying pepper spray, just to be on the safe side.
I hate to admit it, but I’d been doing just fine without Michael. Sure, I thought about him sometimes…mostly, I worried that his final moments had been painful and dreadful. But now that I was single again, it was almost like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Honestly, that made me feel more guilty than anything. Heather told me that it was normal – she’d come to realize that in retrospect, perhaps Michael and I didn’t have the best relationship. But now that he was gone, I began to think that maybe I’d taken him for granted. Sure, Michael never told me he loved me or was very demonstrative. He’d never even brought me flowers. But he’d provided for me, and set a clear example of what he expected in return for his material generosity.
Now I worried that I’d be single for the rest of my life.
Leaning against the glass, I yawned again. Condensation spread across the thin windowpane and I closed my eyes, drawing a finger though the wet mist. The streets were shiny in the early morning sun.
Finally, I made myself get up and get dressed in my “work uniform” – a black pencil skirt with a conservative cream blouse and low heels. I glanced in the mirror, tidying my brown hair. I wonder what Michael would think of me now, I thought as I toyed with my bangs. Would he still like me? Would he even recognize me?
I shook my head as if to clear the thought, then stepped away from the mirror and twisted the bare skin on my left ring finger. I’d never exactly loved my engagement ring, but it still felt weird to have bare hands once again. I hated knowing that I’d given the ring back to Douglas, but as Heather said, it was better to cover my ass than worry about a lawsuit in the future.
Grabbing my jacket, I threw the strap of my work bag over my shoulder and poured myself a go-cup of coffee from the small machine on the counter. Today’s a new day, I thought, forcing a smile as I stepped out the door and closed it quietly behind me. And I can do anything I want.
--
Work was fine – it always was. My boss had hired me without knowing about Michael…but the death of a billionaire’s son doesn’t stay quiet for long. During my second week of work, the New York Times had published a spread on Michael and his life. There was a big photo of us on the front page of the Style section – it had been on of our engagement photos, with Michael and I both looking happy. When I’d gone into work the next day, my boss had thrown his arms around me and apologized. I hadn’t been pleased about the article. I was sure that Douglas had manipulated the editor into making sure there was little mention of me, and it felt like an overall stain to Michael’s memory. The article had made him seem so cold and calculating, just like a little version of his father. I’d saved it, of course, but it hadn’t been the Michael I’d known.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot today, I realized as I descended into the grimy subway. I wonder what that’s all about.
When I got home, Heather was standing in front of the stove, stirring something delicious. The air was thick with the creamy, tangy smell of marinara sauce and I grinned when I saw a bag of fresh pasta perched on the side of the stove.
“Hey,” Heather said. “Long day?”
I shrugged. “Same as every other, to be honest,” I said. “God, that looks good. How long have you been cooking?”
Heather laughed. “It’s nothing,” she said. She lifted the lid of the trash can and I saw a jar of gourmet pasta sauce from the bodega down the street. Heather rolled her eyes and we laughed together.
“Still not much of a cook,” I cracked. I put my work bag down on the floor and perched on a barstool.
“It’s better than takeout,” Heather shot back. She snickered. “God, I can’t wait for the weekend.”
I nodded. “Me either.” I yawned. “I feel like ever since I started working full time, I’m just exhausted. Like, all the time.”
Heather nodded. “I get that,” she said. “Hey, can you put on the TV?”
“Why?” I frowned. “What’s coming on?”
“Some guy robbed a woman on my subway car this morning,” Heather explained. “I wanted to hang around and see if he got caught but I was already running late so I had to go.”
I nodded. “Sure.” I walked over to the small TV we kept on the edge of the bar and flipped through the channels until I found a local news station. The anchors were sitting in front of a tall desk, looking both comical and serious as they read bits and short stories from a televised prompted.
“So,” Heather said. “This weekend, I was thinking – you wanna go shopping in Jersey? Mom offered to take us to lunch.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know, I was thinking about catching up on my sleep.” Keeping one ear on the television, I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. Suddenly, one of the anchors said a familiar name.
A name that chilled my blood when I heard it spoken.
“Alessio Amoruso, owner of local restaurant chain Amoruso’s, has been officially released from prison today. He served six months after violating parole.”
I grabbed the remote and fumbled, dropping it on my feet. The plastic bounced off my toes and I cried out in pain as I reached down and grabbed it again, desperately punching the ‘volume up’ button as I aimed the plastic square at the television.
“What the hell,” Heather hissed. “What’s wrong with you, spaz girl?”
“Shut up,” I said. “I’m trying to hear this.”
The female anchor turned back to her co-star and laughed politely. “Sources say Amoruso could be facing more severe charges, but a lawyer for the family has released the statement that he’s happy to be out of jail, and looks forward to returning to the restaurant empire.”
“Oh, Amoruso’s,” the male anchor said. “Wow, I love their pasta. You ever eaten there, Cindy?”
The female anchor laughed. “No, Mark,” she tittered. “I haven’t, but I hope to soon!”
Groaning, I muted the television and buried my face in my hands.
“This is so fucked,” I mumbled under my breath. “I can’t believe he’s out! I can’t believe they didn’t get him for Michael!”
“Babe, what are you talking about?” Heather walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I thought you were having a good day!”
“I was,” I moaned miserably. “Until I heard about this!”
“Oh, honey, I’m sure he doesn’t want anything to do with you,” Heather said.
I frowned. “I’m not worried about that idiot or his dumb threats,” I said slowly. “But I can’t believe he didn’t serve more time.” Guilt flashed across my brain. Michael would want me to avenge him, I realized as I stared at the muted television screen.
“Well, you’re fine then,” Heather chirped. She stirred the marinara sauce on the stove. “Feel like dinner?”
I grabbed my phone and shook my head. “I gotta call someone,” I said. “And then I’m gonna go lie down. Thanks, though.”
Heather pouted as I left the kitchen. I wanted to tell her what I was feeling, but part of me didn’t think she’d understand. After all, now that Michael was gone, her favorite thing to say was, “the two of you weren’t perfect for each other.”
What would she say about my urge to avenge his untimely death?
Alone in the privacy of my small bedroom, I called the New York police.
“Hello,” I said. “May I please speak with Detective Aberson?”
There was a long pause. “What for?”
“It’s about Alessio Amoruso,” I said.
There was a click. Five seconds later, a familiar and kindly voice sounded in my ear.
“Hello, Beth,” Detective Aberson said. “I had a feeling I might be hearing from you today. How are you?”
I bit my lip. “I didn’t know he was out,” I said softly. “How the hell did he manage to get out so fast?”
Detective Aberson sighed. “I don’t know, Beth,” he said. “I know this is the guy responsible for some heinous shit around the city.”
“I want to testify,” I said. “I want to testify that he threatened me to stay silent for the murder of Michael Bennett.”
“Are you sure?” Detective Aberson coughed wetly into the receiver. “That’s a lot of stress to go through, Beth. That might be very hard on you. Are you sure you’re ready for something as difficult as that?”
“Yes,” I said. My voice quavered and shook. “I don’t have a choice,” I added. “Michael would want me to do this.”
“I understand, Beth,” Detective Aberson said. “I’m proud of you. I’ll call you soon. Try not to leave the city for a few days, okay?”
“I won’t.”
“And can you come down tomorrow? Maybe in the evening?”
“I’ll be there at six-thirty.”