She slammed the pages down on the table. Both hands shook uncontrollably and she feared she might lose control of her body. She picked the letter back up and skimmed for keywords, tried looking it over to find where she misread. The words stayed the same. Danno knew Bruno before he ever knew her. He knew Emmanuel. He knew where he lived. He never would have come to her town if it weren’t to try to get Emmanuel’s money.
She stood, letting the papers fall to the floor. Everyone was still working on their computers or talking on their phones. Men were drinking beer with their suit jackets on the backs of their seats. There was no earthquake happening except inside of her. Everything inside was pushing her to go. Every thought she had was prefaced with “Go now. Take your bag and go.”
If she left, Danno would be worried. She knew he loved her, which was the worst part. She knew he didn’t care about the deal or the money. She knew he would die if anything happened to her. She knew their time together changed him, as it had changed her. It was the worst part because there was love.
She slumped back down in the chair.
“More tea, Miss?” a server asked meekly.
“No, thank you. Just the check.”
“It’s on the account Miss.”
“Yes, okay, thank you.”
He ran his world by signing his name. His name took care of everything. He lived differently than people who had to apply for credit or hope they could save enough money to retire. He risked a lot, but the reward was living a life that wasn’t confining day after day.
Her chest tightened as she folded the pages and shoved them back into the envelope. She knew Emmanuel was telling the truth, but felt better trying to find holes in his explanation, to prove him wrong. Why would he still pay her when he knew something, anything, had gone wrong?
She could confront Danno and ask him to tell her the truth. He o course would know that she already knew what the truth was to even ask in the first place. He would know she knew about all of it. What did he do to people who knew too much? Did he kill them or have someone else do it? He wouldn’t actually kill her if he loved her, she thought. The again, she had nearly forgotten that a man burned to death because of her. Self-defense or not, she had taken a life.
He could be the only kind of person with the only kind of life that she could actually build something with. They both did things the way other people didn’t do them. They both felt connected to one another. She wouldn’t be able to find anyone who made her feel that way he had. And he meant the most to her since she was left the country with him and didn’t tell anyone she knew that she was going.
She held her hands out and tried to steady them. When this didn’t work, she did her best to dry her eyes by waving them rapidly. People began to look at her. She was the most underdressed in her sundress, damp with sweat, sandals and sunglasses. She took another cigarette out and lit it. This time the smoked entered her lungs easier.
“Get up and go. Leave,” she whispered. She zipped up her bag and swung it over her shoulder.
“Hey, are you smoking?” He said, coming up behind her.
She jumped, sending ashes all over the armchair.
“Just one,” she said, stubbing it out next to the first cigarette she had smoked.
He sat on the coffee table in front of her and took her face into his hands.
“This flight is not going to be as long. Just have a nice dinner, read a little and I’ll be at the gate in no time.”
She nodded and let tears slide down her cheeks, into his hands. He hugged her.
“Come on. Everything is going to work out.”
He signed the check and took her hand, walking her out with his arm around her.
“I have to use the restroom,” she said.
“Sure. To the right. I’ll wait.
“Do you want to come in with me?” She asked, winking.