Her interest in me suddenly makes me suspicious. It wasn’t until I introduced myself as Vince Morelli that she started showing up on my doorstep.
Turning to look back at her over my shoulder, I ask, “What brought you to Connecticut?”
“Hm?”
“It’s a long way from Chicago. You came here to be a waitress?”
Her blue eyes meet mine, but I don’t pick up any sudden changes to indicate I’ve made her nervous. “No, I got an internship here. In Hartford. This was nearby and cheaper than living in Hartford, so I ended up here.”
“What kind of internship? When did it start? When does it end? Are you only here for a few months then?”
“Whoa.” She smiles uneasily, pushing up on the couch and curling her legs beneath her. “This just turned into an interrogation pretty fast.”
“It’s just kinda weird that we’re both from Chicago and we both ended up at this apartment complex within a few months of each other, isn’t it?”
Now she frowns, scooting down so she can get off the couch without disturbing me. “I don’t know. I guess? Chicago’s not exactly a small town, Vince. A lot of people are from Chicago.”
“Yeah, but not a lot of those people probably end up in the same corner of New England in the same apartment complex. On the same level, even.”
“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, frowning at me. “I was just trying to get to know you.”
“Why do you make so many comments about me being a criminal?”
“Because you own a lock-pick set,” she states, eyebrows rising.
I shrug, pushing up off the floor since she’s standing now. “Hobby. I like to know how things work.”
“All right? I don’t know why you’re being so defensive all of a sudden, the criminal stuff—it’s just gentle ribbing. You seemed to find it amusing.”
“Do I seem amused?”
“Not right this moment,” she admits. “Is this because I asked about your family? I just remembered you saying you didn’t have a home to go to for Thanksgiving, and I thought—I was just making conversation.”
“Do you know Mateo Morelli?”
Fear flashes through her eyes—it’s too fleeting and too unfamiliar in her for me to know why, but it does. I don’t know if it’s a good or bad sign that she pales a little and takes a step back, putting a little more space between us.
My eyes narrow and I take a step closer.
She takes another tentative step back, regarding me with no small amount of caution. That she knows to be afraid of me fans the flames of my paranoia.
“I think maybe you should go,” she finally says.
“You do know him, then,” I remark, taking a step closer.
She backs herself right up against the wall, but I hold her gaze. “I told you I grew up in Chicago, Vince,” she states. “Sure, I’ve heard of Mateo Morelli.”
“And you knew my last name was Morelli.”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. It’s to herself, not me, but she rakes her hands through her hair, looking down instead of at me. “You just told me you were from Chicago two minutes ago. Morelli isn’t the rarest name in the world, Vince. If this is your way of telling me you’re mobbed up, you might want to work on fine-tuning your delivery.”
Since I’ve advanced on her while she was backing herself into a corner, I’m right on top of her now. She’s staring at my chest instead of my eyes. I try to read her, but I just don’t know her well enough. She stirs up shit inside me that no one else does anymore, but ultimately I don’t know this girl. I’ve seen her surface layers, but nothing underneath.
I reach out and grab a fistful of her soft blue sweater. She inhales fast and exhales shakily, but she doesn’t demand to know what the hell I’m doing—which is probably the more reasonable response. She should be scowling at me, demanding I get my hands off her, threatening to call the cops since I’m behaving like a lunatic.
That’s probably what an innocent person would do.
Carly doesn’t do any of that. She doesn’t utter a word, doesn’t scowl—she just waits to see what I’ll do.
This is not what I would expect an innocent person to do.
My suspicions double. I reach for the hem of her shirt and yank it up, checking her for a wire. She gasps as I do, but again, voices no objection. When I lower her shirt and release my hold on it, she stares at me like I’m a tiger whose cage just fell apart—but still doesn’t object.
None of that’s normal. That’s not a normal way to react to some guy getting aggressive with you and yanking your shirt halfway off.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I demand.
Her eyebrows rise in vague disbelief. “I don’t want to make whatever’s going on here worse.”