Burned Dreams (Perfectly Imperfect #7)

“We visited five stores where she bought a bunch of clothes and shoes. She didn’t meet anyone or speak with anyone other than store employees. We didn’t go to a restaurant. She grabbed a pastry from a bakery at the mall.”

“Filling?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “What?”

“What was the filling, Zanetti? Ravenna is not allowed to eat sweets unless I specifically allow it.”

I fist my right hand at my side. The sick bastard controls what his wife eats. “It was a cheese pie.”

“Good. Proceed with what happened at her mother’s place.”

“They talked,” I say through my teeth.

“About?”

“About the clothes she bought. And then we left.”

Rocco takes a pen off the desk and starts tapping it on the rim of the glass offset before him in a slow, uneven rhythm. The sound is extremely irritating, threatening my already thin restraint. Each time he is in my field of vision, I need to employ every damn self-control technique I know, so I don’t just kill the motherfucker on the spot.

Does he ever think about the woman whose life he took? My wife lay in a puddle of her own blood, in the middle of the street for almost half an hour until the ambulance arrived. That day, a few blocks away, an upper floor of the city parking garage collapsed, killing and injuring several people. Traffic was tied up for miles. Fire and police departments assisted with rescue and evacuation. Medical personnel were busy triaging and getting the injured to the nearby facilities. Amid the chaos, it took too long for the emergency vehicle to get to Natalie. One life in a city of millions. One death that shook my world. Of course, he doesn’t spare a thought for her. He probably forgot it ever happened.

But I will make him remember when the time comes. He will remember the woman he killed when I cut his wife open in front of him and make him watch as the life slowly seeps out of her.

The image of Ravenna Pisano sprawled on the floor, covered in blood, flashes before my eyes. I’ve always found it comforting to imagine the way I would kill the motherfucker’s wife, like finally fulfilling a life-long promise and shedding the weight of the burden I carry, but now, instead of the peace of mind, something else rises within me.

It’s denial.

The image of Mrs. Pisano’s bloody face blurs in my thoughts and transforms into an unknown woman.

I dig my nails deeper into my palm as I clutch my fist and focus on the pen Rocco is still hitting on the glass, trying to shove Ravenna Pisano’s likeness back where I envisioned it to be. It doesn’t work.

“And nothing else happened, Zanetti?” Rocco asks. “Nothing unusual?”

I shift my eyes off the pen he’s holding and meet his gaze. His wife secretly hiding clothes at her mother’s place would probably count as unusual. As well as having her friend give her an unknown substance from the pharmacy.

“No,” I say.

“Good.” He throws the pen back on the desk and powers up his laptop. “Ravenna is probably waiting for you by the front door. She has her weekly spa appointment scheduled.”

Of course she does. It seems like the only things that interest Mrs. Pisano are shopping and beauty treatments. My mind goes to the scene from yesterday when I watched her scrub her mother’s kitchen so the older woman wouldn’t further hurt her back. It doesn’t add up.

Nodding, I leave the office.

Just like her husband said, Ravenna Pisano is standing by the front door, holding her coat over her arm. I reach out to take the coat from her, but she quickly takes a step back.

“Please, don’t,” she says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Just . . . don’t.” She puts on her coat, opens the door, and steps outside.

I follow her as she rushes down the stone steps and stops on the last one with her head tilted up toward the sky. There is nothing above that would attract her attention, only gray clouds. She stands like that for almost a minute, breathing deeply and staring at the vast nothingness before heading to the car.

***

Situated in a modern building, the Wellness Center takes up the entire second level and promises its patrons nothing less than heaven and luxury. That is if one is to believe the sign in the lobby directing us to this place. As Mrs. Pisano walks toward the reception desk, the click of her heels echo off the marble floor, somehow complementing the soothing sounds of nature playing from well-hidden speakers.

“Mrs. Pisano.” The girl on the other side of the desk smiles. “I’m glad to see you again. Hazel is waiting for you.”