But Too Well

V : Reality

WHEN I OPEN my door the next morning, there is a surprise waiting for me.

Outside my room, the plate I gave Nero the night before lays on the floor, filled with some kind of amazing looking pastry. It's cling-wrapped with a blue bow, a small white slip of paper stuck to the top.

My face breaks into a smile as I pick it up, bringing it inside to inspect it. The note is hand-written on a thick piece of cardstock, the script dark, thin, slanted.

Dolcezza,
Thanks for the cupcakes.
They were delicious.
See? I can be a good neighbor too.

I stare at the words, re-reading them over and over in my head. So he did taste the cupcakes. The idea brings a smile to my face.

I have to remind myself of the fact that the man who gave me this plate of beautiful chocolate-almond croissants, still warm, is the same man who assaulted me in my own apartment, threatening to have me killed.

The memory of that moment two nights ago is somehow already fading, replaced with the image of his sleepy face in the doorway of his room, and of the little piece of paper lying on the counter in front of me.

That makes me crazy, right? To exchange friendly notes and delicious baked-goods with a murderous criminal? It sounds like insanity, thinking about it. But I just can't bring myself to be all that angry with him anymore. A part of me recognizes that this—his little gift—is a peace offering. It's his way of saying sorry, without actually saying it.

Something tells me that apologies are practically unheard of from that perfect mouth of his, and that this is the closest I'll get.

I decide to stay for a little while longer, making a cup of coffee. The croissants are mind-blowing. I have to remember to ask Nero where he got them from. He must have woken up early, I realize, to pick them up fresh and bring them back before ten in the morning.

Briefly, I wonder if he left or if he's still next door. The image of his startling brown eyes flashes across my mind, and I try to shake the thoughts of him away, my chest fluttering.

•§•

SUNDAY IS CHORES day. I have a list of errands to run before I make the half-hour drive to my parents' house for our six-o'clock weekly dinner.

Around one in the afternoon, I manage to convince myself that I can afford a trip to the bookstore, my secret haven. Running my fingers along the stiff new spines of a promising shelf, my eyes get caught on another rack of books beside me, and the idea fills my head instantly. Impulsively, I grab the thick blue book off the shelf, eventually taking it to the checkout.

Sydney the cashier knows me by my first name. Putting my books down on the counter, we fall into easy conversation. As she picks up the heavy little book, she raises a friendly eyebrow. "Learning Italian or something?"

"Yeah, something like that," I reply vaguely, and she laughs, saying that I'm like the first one to buy the Compact Oxford Italian Dictionary from the store in over a month. She tells me about how dictionary sales in general are at an all time low, because of Google Translate and the internet and whatever, but I barely listen, thinking about what, or who, is the reason I decided to buy the book anyways.

At four, I find myself lying on my couch, flipping through the thin pages of my new handy-dandy language reference guide. Curious, my finger slides down through the ds. My eye catches the word I'm looking for, and I can hear Nero's voice in my head, rough and low, the sound of it rolling off his tongue. Sweetness, sweetheart. I purse my lips, closing my eyes with a small sigh. What's happening to me, I have no idea.

That night at dinner, my mom notices my distraction. I try convincing her it's nothing, and thankfully, she doesn't press. I let my brother Daniel monopolize the conversation, content to listen to him and my dad talk about their busy, lawyerly lives. My mom, also a JD, makes an effort to include me, and I love her for it, even though my thoughts are scattered and elsewhere.

They ask me about my new place, and I tell them I love it, that it's close to my office. They quickly move on to the topic of my job, which always manages to come up, and this time, I'm grateful because it means I don't have to think of my difficult apartment situation.

"Rosy," Daniel says affectionately, giving my toe a playful nudge beneath the table, "A couple of guys at my office were talking about how they're looking for artwork they can donate for a charity thing, so I told them I know a great artist who might be able to help them out...." He gives me a wink, and a smile grows steadily across my face. "Would you be interested by any chance?"

I laugh, beaming at him. "Aw, Daniel, you know I would." I can guess that he put more work than he lets on into getting me this commission, and the gratitude spills across my face. "Thanks," I add, giving him my sincerest smile.

I let them continue talking about my artwork and my job at the design firm, knowing how hard they try to be encouraging and supportive. The youngest of two, it was a surprise when I didn't want to go into law like the rest of my family, so I appreciate their attempts.

After cleaning up dessert, we make our way into the living room, and my dad turns on the news. Yeah, it's a strange way for us to spend our time together, but the eight o'clock news somehow became a tradition on Sundays that none of us has the courage to put an end to.

Sipping my tea, I watch the screen as the reporters speak of war and famine abroad, of the European economy and the unrest growing in different parts of the States.

We joke about how much we love being Canadian, about how American politics drives us nuts sometimes. The images transition to the local news, and video clips of sirens and forensic experts fill the screen.

The anchor talks about how organized crime rates in the city are on a sharp rise, that police are unable to find any real leads. My mind is still floating back to my apartment, and to the whirlwind of strange events from the last couple days.

Distracted, it takes a moment for the voices on the TV, talking about something or other, to register. When they do, a cold shiver runs down my spine, the images fitting together perfectly, frighteningly, in my head.

Pictures of a pale corpse fill the screen, police tape cordoning off a region by the docks. A moving banner at the bottom of the picture reads, in bold letters, Man found shot in head near a Vancouver marina. Connections to drug-related organized crime suspected. No suspects yet found.

Somewhere in my head, I know that there's a chance that none of this is related. But mostly, I feel a sense of dread, of panic, building quickly in my chest.

Abruptly, I excuse myself and hurry to the bathroom, locking myself in and sinking to the ground, my back against the cool paint of the door. I try to keep my breaths steady while my thoughts spin, frantic, around my mind. Snippets of the conversation I heard next door on Friday night mix with the voices from the TV, talking about a murder that sounds eerily familiar. Horrifyingly so.

Nero's face fills my thoughts, along with his voice and his fingers and his warm breath against my face, my heart pounding as he pushed me forcefully against the door of my apartment. Cupcakes and croissants and slanted handwriting find their way into my mind too, and it takes me a good couple of minutes to calm down, to inhale normally and clear my chaotic thoughts.

I just became an accessory before the fact.

I just became an accomplice to violent murder.

I just became a criminal.

***

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