He doesn’t return my smile.
“Really,” I say.
His eyes are so dark, it’s impossible to make out his pupils. “Tell me the truth.”
“You don’t want to hear the truth.”
“Tell me.”
In the last five years, every single person I have told about the things Andy has done to me—the police, the doctors, my best friend—has called me crazy. Delusional. I have been locked up for talking about what he has done to me. But here is a man who wants to hear the truth. He will believe me.
So as we stand on my front lawn on this beautiful sunny day, I tell Enzo everything. I tell him about the room in the attic. I tell him some of the ways Andy has tormented me. I tell him about finding Cecelia unconscious in the bathtub. It was years ago but I remember her face under the water like it was yesterday. I tell him everything as his face grows darker and darker.
Before I even finish, Enzo lets loose with a string of Italian. I don’t know the language, but I know curse words when I hear them. His fingers squeeze on the clippers until they turn white. “I kill him,” he hisses. “Tonight, I will kill him.”
All the blood drains out of my face. It felt so good to tell him everything that happened to me, but it was a mistake. He is beyond furious. “Enzo…”
“He is a monster!” he bursts out. “You do not want me to kill him?”
Yes, I want Andy dead. But I don’t want to deal with any of the consequences. Especially the letter that will go to the police in the event of his death. I want him dead, but not enough to spend my life in prison.
“You can’t do it.” I shake my head firmly. “You’ll go to jail. We’ll both go to jail. Is that what you want?”
Enzo mumbles more Italian under his breath. “Fine. Then you leave him.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. I will help you.”
“What can you do?” It’s not entirely a rhetorical question. Maybe Enzo is secretly rich. Maybe he’s got some mob connections I don’t know about. “Can you get me a plane ticket? A new passport? A new identity?”
“No, but…” He rubs his chin. “I will find a way. I know some people. I will help.”
I want so badly to believe him.
FORTY-EIGHT
Step Seven: Try to Escape
A week later, I meet up with Enzo to make plans.
We are careful about it. In fact, when I have friends over from the PTA, I make a show of snapping at him that he’s ruining my geraniums, just to ward off any potential gossip. I’m almost certain Andy put a tracking device somewhere in my car, so I can’t drive to his house. Instead, I drive to a fast-food restaurant, park in the lot, and hop into his vehicle before anyone can see. I leave my phone behind.
I’m not taking any chances.
Enzo has a small basement apartment that he rents, but it has a private entrance. He leads me to his tiny kitchenette with a round circular table and rickety chairs, and the chair groans threateningly as I sit down. I feel self-conscious about how much nicer our house is than his living quarters, but then again, I don’t think he’s the kind of person who would care about stuff like that.
Enzo goes over to his fridge. He pulls out a beer and holds it up. “You want?”
I start to say no, but I change my mind. “Yes, please.”
He returns to the table with two beer bottles. He uses a bottle opener on his keychain to pop them both open and then he slides one of them across the table to me. I rest my fingers on the bottle, feeling the cold condensation under my hand.
“Thank you,” I say.
He shrugs. “Is not great beer.”
“I don’t mean for the beer.”
He cracks his knuckles. As the muscles in his arms flex, it’s hard not to be aware of how incredibly sexy this man is. If the women in my neighborhood knew I was in his apartment, they would all be incredibly jealous. They would assume he was ripping my clothes off as we speak and getting ready to ravish me—they would probably be angry that he picked me out of all the other women on the block who are more attractive than I am. Enzo could do so much better. They have no clue. It’s so far off from the truth, it’s almost funny. But not really.
“I had a feeling,” he says. “Your husband—I could tell he is bad guy.”
I take a long swig from the beer bottle. “I didn’t even know you spoke English.”
Enzo laughs. He’s been working in my yard for two years now, and this is the first time I’ve heard him laugh. “It is easier to pretend I don’t understand. Otherwise, the housewives do not ever leave me alone. You get me?”