But then she speaks, her voice soft, “Why don’t you ask about the night I met you? Or the crush I admitted to having on you back when you used to be my tutor? Why do we have to focus on him at all? Did I, at one time, have a crush on Mateo? Yes. But he never touched me. I was never his. If that’s what you’re worried about, you can just ask. I’ve never been with anyone.”
Whoa, that was not what I was after.
I mean, I thought that might be the case, since she was cloistered away at his house so young, but I wasn’t going to ask.
She has successfully sidetracked my train of thought. Now instead of Mateo, I’m thinking about Elise’s body, about the formative years she spent isolated, about the experiences she hasn’t had.
“Were you ever lonely?” I ask.
She nods, catching a strand of blond hair and twisting it around her finger. “Sure, sometimes. But I was lonely before I lived at the mansion, too. I was never good at making friends.”
“No, me neither,” I tell her.
I can feel her watching me, but I don’t look up.
“Actually, that’s not true. I was good at making friends until I was eight. I had lots of friends.” Indicating the left side of my face, I say, “And then this happened. Then I had lots of sympathizers for a little while. Then I had one friend, and sometimes I didn’t even want that one. I wasn’t the same after that. I lost everything, and I got lost in it.”
“You were only eight when that happened?” she asks softly.
I nod.
“Was it… was it a house fire, or…?”
This is one thing I’ve never discussed with Elise. She’s never asked. She’s never even mentioned my scars, almost like she didn’t even notice them. I’ve never discussed it with anyone, actually.
“My mom used to work for Mateo’s dad.” Smiling very slightly, I say, “She was a maid. Before Maria, before he… insisted on owning his maids. He probably started that because of her, honestly. She worked there for years, before I was even born she started working there, and she became friendly with his wife, Belle. She was miserable, hated Matt, he was horrible to her. Abusive. He started cheating on her to hurt her. He was every bad part of Mateo on steroids and without any of the charm.” Glancing up at her, I say, “You’ve met Dante, right?”
She nods, her attention rapt.
“He’s more like Matt than Mateo. Anyway, after years of abuse, Belle fell in love with someone else. She wanted to leave Matt, but of course, you don’t leave a Morelli. She got pregnant, and no one was sure by whom. She already had a daughter with Matt, but that was earlier on, when he was less violent. She was terrified of him, and… they weren’t even sure he would let her keep the babies, because he found out about the affair so he didn’t know if they were his. One night it all blew up. He attacked her and my mom was there, she saw. So she went to get his sister for help. Bianca came and they tried to help, to stop him, but I guess he hurt her pretty badly. Bianca and my mother helped her escape. My mom packed her some things, Bianca snuck her out. And she disappeared. It seemed like she was the one woman who successfully escaped them. As it turned out, my mother… knew where Belle went. They continued to exchange Christmas cards every year, to check in, since they had been such good friends. Matt moved on, started tormenting Mateo’s mom until she killed herself. Played with Joey’s mom for a while. But he never stopped looking for Belle until he found her. And when he did? He found the Christmas cards.”
Elise’s eyes are wide with horror. Even though she can probably figure out where this is going, it’s like she’s hoping for a different ending. “So… it was retaliation?”
I nod. “He brought a shoe box over to our house one night. Had the Christmas cards from over the years, pictures of me she’d sent to show me off.” With a slight smile, I tell her, “I was a cute kid.”
She rolls her eyes lightly, but her eyes wander the left side of my face, taking in every ridge, every welt. “You’ve always been handsome,” she informs me. “I don’t doubt it.”
“I’m no Mateo,” I joke.
“Don’t do that,” she says firmly, shaking her head.
Her compliment makes me more uncomfortable than anything else she’s ever done, so I get back to the story. “Anyway, he dumped out the Christmas cards, tortured my father in front of her, had my mom… hurt. And then he set me on fire.”
“Did he…?”
“Killed them both.”
She slowly exhales, looking weighed down by this story. “I’m so sorry, Adrian.”