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Carrie was supposed to be looking for--what? A deed? A birth certificate? That fucking folder Angela swore was somewhere in "one of the green bins in the guest room closet." The closet that smells like plastic and garlic salt. The closet with three decades of Catholic guilt boxed up in Jo-Ann Fabrics tubs and labeled in Angela's fat red Sharpie.
She was supposed to be in and out.
Instead, she's cross-legged on the carpet, ankle falling asleep, surrounded by receipts from 1997 and a stack of ancient Redbook magazines, holding a photograph that makes her heart stop.
Sophia.
Younger than Carrie's ever seen her. Not a mother. Not a ghost. Not even dead yet. Just alive, in that sharp, aching way only hot girls in grainy photos ever really are.
Sophia's leaning on a boardwalk railing, drink in one hand, cigarette pinched between two fingers like punctuation. Her smile's not the one Carrie inherited--it's sly. Dirty. She looks like she just said something that made someone blush and someone else leave.
But it's the girl next to her that catches Carrie.
Laughing. Wild. Wind in her hair like it's obeying her. Tiny waist. Dark lipstick. Big eyes, like she's daring the camera to tell the truth. Her arm's around Sophia's waist like she owns it. Their hips are touching.
On the back of the photo, faded handwriting:
Atlantic City, 7/74 -- S & O
Carrie doesn't know who "O" is.
Not yet.
She traces the edge of the photo with her thumbnail. It's curled and soft from the heat, like it wants to keep a secret but can't hold it anymore.
From the other room, some speaker crackles to life--Angela's ancient kitchen radio, the one she won't throw away. And there it is:
Dusty Springfield.
Breathy. Melancholy.
Lying through her teeth about forever while saxophones cry behind her.
Carrie closes her eyes and lets it play. Lets the photograph rest on her thigh like a confession. The song's one of those old ones that pretends love is enough. That pretends you don't lose people in the spaces between hands. That pretends time doesn't win.
But Carrie knows better.
Because her grandmother is smiling in this picture.
And somewhere, out of frame, a knife.
And the girl laughing next to her?
Wouldn't make it out of Jersey.
Carrie doesn't know that yet. Not consciously. But the photo feels wrong. Feels like sweat under satin, or blood behind a smile.
She puts it aside like it's hot.
And keeps looking.
For the thing she never names.
July 4, 1974 -- Jersey City Warehouse, 7:42 p. m.
The heat sat on the warehouse like a fat man--loud, heavy, and sweating through his shirt. The smell of gasoline, old plywood, and cigarette butts hung in the air like failure. The firecrackers outside kept going off, but nobody flinched. Not in this room.
Sonny Rossi stood at the folding table, his silver-headed cane resting against his knee. A sweating glass of amaro sat untouched. His voice was gravel rubbed smooth by bourbon and power.
"All right," Sonny said. "We do this clean. No noise. No loose hands. We got five at the table, Rudy's boys on watch, and the buy-in's fat enough to make everyone forget how ugly they are."
He didn't look at Sophia when he said it. She wasn't at the table. She wasn't anywhere, according to the men. Just part of the furniture.
Tito, squat and leathery, adjusted his belt and spat into a beer bottle.
"Who's carrying the piece?" he asked.
Sonny looked at Alessandro Delvecchio, who was tying his tie like he gave a shit about looking right for Rudy's crew.
"Delvecchio's clean," Sonny said.
Alessandro glanced up, calm as ever. "Always am, when you ask me to be."
"You know why I'm sending you," Sonny continued. "You're the best at cards. Rudy likes cards. I need him smiling when the knife goes in."
He turned to the rest of the room. "Allie's not just good--he's mine. Been my right hand since before some of you were shaving your pricks."
Marco laughed. "You still trust him with the blade, boss?"
"I trust him to get the blade," Sonny said. "and to use it."
That's when Sophia looked up from the crate she was pretending to be bored on.
"You want me to bring it in," she said flatly.
Sonny finally looked at her. Not hard, not cruel--just deliberate.
"You're not just bringing it. You're passing it."
Sophia rolled her eyes. "What am I, a magician's assistant?"
"You're a girl in short fuckin' shorts," Tito muttered.
Sophia stood. "I could do this whole job myself. Walk in, slit the bastard's throat, walk out--"
Sonny raised his hand, just one finger. Silence fell.
"You wanna prove you're tough, fine. Go mouth off to Rudy's guys. See what happens. You think I'm not sendin' you in because you're a girl?"
Sophia didn't answer.
"I'm sending you in," Sonny said, slow now, soft enough it sounded like something intimate, "because they won't fucking look at you. They'll see your tits and forget you got hands."
He stepped toward her, put a twenty-dollar bill in her hand.
"You lean in, kiss Delvecchio like you're proud of him. Knife's between your shoulder blades, taped flat. Slip it to Allie while they're laughing at your ass. Then you walk out. Head high. Don't look back."
He turned back to the others. "Angelo, you wait until she's clear."
Angelo Baratta, leaning against the wall like a wolf in dress shoes, nodded once. Didn't speak.
Sonny drained his glass. "Once the door's shut, you go in and make it biblical."
Marco whistled. "Who's the mark?"
Sonny smiled--but it was the kind of smile that meant someone was already dead.
"Don't worry," he said. "You'll know him when he screams."
The air was thicker after the plan was laid. The room half-empty now, with Tito and Marco off counting out bundles, and Sophia outside somewhere lighting a cigarette like it was a statement. The city crackled with fireworks and sirens. From here, they couldn't tell which were which.
Sonny poured two fingers of something brown into an unwashed glass and handed it to Alessandro.
They stood near the loading dock door. The breeze from the river barely stirred the sweat on their foreheads.
Alessandro took the drink, rolled it in his hand. He didn't drink it yet. Just watched the amber catch the light.
"If I die in there," he said quietly, "take care of Dante."
Sonny didn't answer right away. He laughed. Not soft. Not cruel. Just too hard, too sharp, like something inside him cracked at the thought.
"You think Sophia inherits all this?" he said, shaking his head, the cane tapping once against the concrete. "You think I'm gonna leave the keys to this kingdom with a girl who stabs her birthday cake and fucks boys out of spite?"
Alessandro didn't respond. He knew Sonny wasn't really asking.
Sonny exhaled, slower now. Older.
"Dante's in," he said. "He has been since I lost Augusto."
A pause.
Then: "He'll make you proud."
Alessandro finally drank. Just one swallow. Enough to feel it in his chest.
"I already am," he said.
2022
Carrie wasn't looking for anything now. Not really. She was just digging through the boxes at Angela's--the ones with tired tape and old smoke in the cardboard seams. The ones that always left her hands smelling like pennies and perfume.
She found the clipping at the bottom of a cigar box under a bunch of Polaroids that weren't hers to see. She recognized it before she touched it. Folded twice, edges yellowed and curled like dried leaves. That stupid Inquirer masthead in blue ink. The same one she used to trace with her finger when she was too young to read.
But this time...
This time it felt heavier.
She sat down cross-legged on the kitchen linoleum. The kind with the fake tile pattern and the one black scorch mark near the stove from that fight in '07. Her back popped. She didn't care.
Carrie unfolded the clipping.
"Mob Ties Suspected in Double Fatal in McGinley Square"
--two men, names familiar, faces obscured.
Dante Delvecchio, 29.
Santo 'Sonny' Rossi, 72.
She read it like it was new. Like the words hadn't already carved their initials into her.
Her father. Her grandfather. Dead together. March 2nd, 1998.
Two weeks before she was born.
The article speculated. They always did.
Car bomb. No witnesses.
No charges filed.
Just a quote from some detective with a name she didn't bother remembering:
"Given Mr. Rossi's connections, we're not ruling anything out."
Carrie stared at the line for a long time. Let it sink in.
... given Mr. Rossi's connections....
Like it was all Sonny. Like her father had been riding shotgun in his own fucking death.
She rubbed the edge of the paper between her fingers. It felt thin. Fragile. Like it could vanish. Like maybe if she folded it back fast enough, she could undo it. Like maybe if she bled on it, it'd count for something.
Angela had always told her:
"They were trying to leave the life."
But the paper didn't say that.
The paper didn't mention the way her mom screamed when they brought the car key in a Ziploc.
Didn't mention how Sonny was trying to settle scores before he died.
Didn't mention how Dante never wanted to be a boss.
Didn't mention her at all.
She was a footnote in the margins of a world she inherited like a gun in a nightstand. Never clean. Always loaded.
Carrie folded the clipping once. Then again.
Put it back in the box.
This time, she didn't cry.
She just sat there, back against the fridge, and whispered,
"You should've waited for me."
Atlantic City, July 3, 1974. Hours before the job.
Sophia shouldn't be here.
She's supposed to be back in Philly by now, supposed to be asleep on clean sheets, pretending not to think about the blade. But she told her cousin she needed air, and the boardwalk was calling--gaudy, hot, loud. Somewhere between a carnival and a crime scene. The wind smelled like sugar and hot dogs and piss.
And then--like fate pulling a stunt--Orabella stepped out of a taffy shop like a movie moment. Black hair in a high scarf, red lips, sunglasses on top of her head, and a laugh that cut through everything.
Sophia froze mid-step.
That laugh. That fucking laugh.
She hadn't heard it in over a year, since that weekend in Margate where they drank peach schnapps and kissed like they had no idea how to stop. Since Orabella slipped back into Jersey life like it never happened.
And now?
Here. In the sun. With her bare shoulders and that mouth and those goddamn eyes.
"Bella?" Sophia blinked, heart stalling in her chest.
Orabella turned, paused... then brightened, too. It was real. That smile wasn't faked.
"Soph?"
They ran to each other. No hesitation. Laughing like idiots. An embrace that turned a few heads. Nobody said anything. Two pretty girls on the boardwalk hugging too long? Nobody gave a shit.
"You look..." Orabella bit her lip. "Like you own this place."
"I don't even own the shoes I'm wearing," Sophia grinned. "Don't tell."
"You look good."
"You look dangerous."
They walked, arms linked, too close for friends, too public for anything else. Sophia was buzzing. High. Careless.
Orabella lit a cigarette and handed it to her.
"So what are you doing up here?" she asked.
Sophia hesitated. Just for a second.
"Business," she said.
Orabella raised an eyebrow. "Yours or Sonny's?"
Sophia laughed. "Same thing, right?"
They passed the funnel cake stand. Sophia leaned into her. "Don't tell anyone, but I get to be part of something tonight. Big deal. Got my name on it and everything."
"Yeah?"
"Poker game in Jersey City. Rudy's people. I'm the courier."
Orabella's smile flickered. Just for a second. A twitch. Like wind through curtains.
"You?" she said, light, but too still. "What are you bringing? Cash?"
Sophia winked. "You're cute."
Orabella didn't push. Didn't ask again. She knew.
They kept walking. Shared a corn dog. Sat on the low wall by the beach. Sophia didn't notice the shift. The distance. She was too high on memory and touch and the ache of old want.
She kissed Orabella before they said goodbye. Nothing big. Just enough.
"You'll come see me after?" Orabella asked, voice low.
Sophia nodded.
"Let's make a new weekend," she said. "Better than Margate."
Orabella smiled. It almost reached her eyes.
Then they walked away in opposite directions.
The House Always Wins
July 3, 1974 --1:41 p. m.
Rudy Calderone's study, Jersey City
The clock ticked like it was mocking them. The air smelled of wood polish, Cuban tobacco, and the slow rot of too many secrets.
Orabella sat stiffly in the chair meant for wives and daughters. Not soldiers. Not informants. But she'd come anyway.
Across from her, Rudy Calderone, king of a dozen blocks and two dozen corpses, leaned back in his leather chair. He swirled brandy in a glass the size of a soup bowl and waited for her to say it again.
"She's Sonny's granddaughter," Orabella said.
"No," Rudy corrected softly. "She's Sonny's problem."
Next to him, half in shadow, sat Gianmarco Falasco--thick-necked, scarred, and always grinning like someone was about to choke. He'd been Rudy's hitter for two decades and never used the same knife twice. His rings clicked together when he folded his arms.
"She's bringing the blade," Rudy said, just thinking aloud now. "To Delvecchio. A cute little errand girl."
"She doesn't even know who you are to me," Orabella said. Her voice was tight but steady. "She didn't know you were my uncle. She thought she was being clever."
"Was she?" Gianmarco asked, sharp and oily. "Or was she being sloppy?"
"She was being nineteen," Orabella snapped. "And in love."
The silence that followed hummed. Not loud--but charged. Thick.
Rudy sipped. Nodded.
"She told you everything," he said.
"She thinks it's a game. A big, exciting job. She doesn't even like half the people she's working with."
"You want us to let her walk."
Orabella swallowed. "Yes."
"Even though she's moving a weapon into my card game."
"She doesn't know what it's for."
"She knows."
"She won't make it if you don't let her."
Rudy stood--slow, like gravity had to negotiate with him. He walked to the window, looked out at Jersey City like it owed him.
"You know what I like about you, Bella?" he asked. "You think blood's thicker than ambition. It's not. Never was. But you still believe it. And that's almost... admirable."
He turned. Looked at Gianmarco.
"Delvecchio dies. The knife gets found on him. Then we return it to its proper owner."
Gianmarco frowned. "And she?"
"She walks," Rudy said, nodding. "No harm. No follow-up."
Gianmarco stared at him. "You sure?"
Rudy grinned. "You think I'm going to war with Sonny Rossi over a girl who can't keep her mouth shut?"
A beat.
"Let her live. Let her learn."
He leaned toward Orabella.
"You owe me now."
Orabella nodded once, jaw tight.
"I always have," she whispered.
Rudy waited until the girl was gone. Waited until the front door clicked shut and her perfume had faded from the room.
Then he turned, slow, like the decision had been baking in his spine the whole time.
"Some people can't be trusted."
He said it quietly. Like he was just remarking on the weather. His eyes never left the window. Jersey City twinkled like a cheap crown in the dark.
Gianmarco didn't nod. Didn't smile.
He just stood. Pushed his chair in. Straightened his coat.
"I'll make it clean."
Rudy sipped his drink.
"No pain."
"No mess," Gianmarco said.
Rudy didn't turn around.
"Make sure Sonny understands this is about loyalty," he said. "Not vengeance."
Then:
"She was your niece, wasn't she?"
Rudy shrugged. "She was a lot of things."
Gianmarco paused at the door. "She was in love."
Rudy's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"So was Caesar."
Then the door opened.
Then it closed.
Then there was only the ticking of the clock, and the city, and the faint echo of footsteps heading into history.
The Ride Over
July 4, 1974 -- 11:56 p. m.
Warehouse District, Jersey City
The car was old but fast. Kept tuned like a knife. Angelo Baratta drove like he always did--one hand on the wheel, the other free to reach the glove box where the real answers lived.
They pulled up slow. No drama. Warehouse doors yawning open under a busted streetlamp. The kind of place that stank of concrete, blood, and lies no one bothered to clean up.
Alessandro Delvecchio buttoned his jacket. Smoothed the cuffs. He looked good. Real good. Not like a killer, but like a man who couldn't lose at anything that counted.
"This the place?" he asked.
Angelo nodded. "Rudy's inside. Marco too. Looks like they brought the whole circus."
Alessandro smiled, just a little.
"Then let's put on a show."
He opened the door. The air hit him hot and stale. Fireworks still cracked in the distance--bright colors wasting themselves on a sky that didn't care.
He paused before stepping out.
"Dante'll be waiting," he said, almost to himself. "He does that now. Sits right by the door. Sometimes falls asleep with his shoes on. Always wakes up when I come in. Like he knows."
Angelo didn't say anything. Just watched.
Alessandro straightened his shoulders.
"He's gonna be better than me," he said. "I'll see to that."
Then he stepped out.
Walked toward the light like a man going home.
Angelo stayed in the car. Radio low. Gun in the seat beside him. Watching the door. Watching the clock. Watching the sky.
He never stopped watching.
The Girl With the Knife
July 4, 1974 -- Just past midnight
Warehouse off Grand Avenue, Jersey City
It was hot inside.
Not summer hot--body hot. The kind of heat that builds in a room full of men pretending they're not afraid. Cards on the table. Guns in the walls. Nobody sweating except the ones who knew what was coming.
Alessandro Delvecchio sat calm. Confident. The way only a man who believed in loyalty could sit. His smile was polite, sharp. Like he was letting the room borrow it.
He looked down at his hand. Three queens.
Across from him, Rudy Calderone chuckled low, raked his chips inward, and nodded at the girl with the whiskey tray.
"Deal again."
In the shadows by the side exit, Sophia Rossi waited. She wasn't alone. Four other girls stood with her--mostly cigarette girls, party fluff, the kind of girls who got invited to dress the room and make the men feel like kings.
They all knew something was off tonight.
Sophia could feel the knife. Cold, flat, taped beneath her blouse. Her hands shook every time she reached up to fix her hair. She hadn't eaten since the funnel cake on the boardwalk. That had been hours ago.
And now?
Now she was waiting for the signal. Just a look. A nod. Anything.
Next to her, Orabella was a fucking mess. Lipstick bitten clean off, eyes rimmed red. She hadn't spoken since they got there. Hadn't looked at Sophia either.
Sophia nudged her, gentle.
"You okay?"
Orabella didn't answer. Just blinked, hard.
"I don't want you to die," she whispered finally, so soft it could've been the wind. "I didn't know what else to do."
Sophia stared.
"What--what the fuck does that mean?"
Before she could answer, a man stepped through the curtain.
"You're up."
Sophia stepped forward.
She could barely feel her legs.
The Kiss
July 4, 1974 -- 12:09 a. m.
Inside the Warehouse
The lights above the table buzzed. A little too bright. A little too yellow.
Men laughed like they meant it.
Cards shuffled like they didn't matter.
Sophia moved through the smoke like a ghost with good hair.
She held the whiskey tray like a crown, face composed, hips deliberate. She passed behind Alessandro and set the tray down without a sound. The others barely looked at her. A girl's just a girl--until she isn't.
Alessandro didn't turn. He just smiled, real casual, and said, "Soph, bring me luck, yeah?"
She leaned down.
Like always.
Like a charm, a habit, a ritual.
And kissed his cheek.
Soft.
Slow.
Just long enough.
Her hand dipped beneath her collar like she was adjusting her bra strap. The blade came free in one practiced flick. A slit of metal wrapped in tape.
It passed from her palm to his in the curve of a hand resting on a shoulder.
No words. Just the weight of it.
She stood. Walked away like nothing happened.
But across the room--Orabella saw everything.
And her eyes--
Her eyes gave it all away.
She went rigid. White in the face. One hand to her mouth like she might scream or sob or throw up.
Gianmarco noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He didn't move at first. Just watched. Then--
Bang.
Not a gun. A chair.
Tipped back hard.
Alessandro stood.
He didn't draw the knife--not yet--but his hand had gone under the table.
That's when everything cracked open.
Three men drew first.
Two died before they got the safeties off.
One screamed.
The knife was in Alessandro's hand, just rising when--
Gianmarco stepped in from the side.
Too fast. Too close.
He didn't use a gun.
He used his hands.
Crack.
Pop.
A sound like something coming unhooked from the world.
Alessandro hit the ground in a way that said he'd never get up again. No drama. No final words.
Just gone.
Sophia gasped. Froze.
The other girls screamed, scattered--except Orabella. She didn't move. Couldn't.
And Gianmarco, dusting off his coat like it was just another night, turned to face the shadows.
"Nobody leaves."
Gianmarco didn't yell. He didn't have to.
He moved like a shadow caught in human skin--methodical, inevitable, grinning. The kind of grin that means you already decided who's gonna die and in what order.
Orabella stood shaking, her mouth open, her legs locked in place. She didn't run. She didn't even flinch when he reached for her.
But Sophia moved.
Not toward him. Not toward her.
Toward the exit.
It wasn't planned. Nothing in her life had ever moved this fast. But her feet were already hitting the concrete before her brain caught up.
Behind her, she heard Orabella scream--not from pain, not yet. From knowing.
Gianmarco said something low, but Sophia didn't hear it. The blood in her ears was too loud.
She shoved past a stack of folding chairs. Tripped over a cable. Got her heel caught in the hem of her dress and ripped it free without stopping.
Then--
The warehouse door burst open.
Angelo Baratta, revolver in hand, teeth clenched, eyes wild.
He saw her. Just her.
And without asking, without saying a word, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the night.
Gunfire started behind them.
She didn't look back.
He shoved her into the car like a package too important to drop. Peeled out. Tires screamed.
The city opened in front of them--ugly, loud, and full of cops that wouldn't come fast enough.
"Where's Allie?" he asked finally, when her breath caught up.
She didn't answer. Just sobbed once, then bit it down hard.
"Gone," she said.
And for the rest of her life, she'd never remember if she meant dead or just too far away.
Under the Bridge
July 4, 1974 -- 2:49 a. m.
Jersey City - Central and 2nd.
The dirt under the Pulaski Skyway didn't smell like anything. It just felt cold, and real, beneath her fingernails.
Sophia Rossi was down on both knees in her torn dress, the hem shredded and blackened. Her lipstick was gone. Her bra strap dangled like a snapped leash. One earring missing. Her hands were shaking too hard to light the cigarette she kept trying to put to her mouth.
Angelo didn't speak.
He stood a few feet off, half in the yellow wash of the station wagon's headlights, gun tucked back under his coat now. He watched the road. Watched the girl. Watched the night close in.
Her breath staggered. She wasn't crying. Not yet. Crying was for later--for when the adrenaline burned off and the shakes gave way to silence.
"Orabella?" she asked, barely audible.
Angelo didn't answer.
She stared at him. Eyes wild, rimmed red, like she couldn't understand why the stars were still out. Why the world hadn't stopped with Allie's last breath.
"He had a son," she said. "He--Dante was waiting for him. I know he was. Right by the door. He always--he always waits by the door."
Angelo didn't flinch.
Then: the sound of a car. A long, low engine. Heavy. Slow.
Sonny Rossi was coming.
You could feel it in the way Angelo squared his shoulders. The way the light changed.
Sophia curled in on herself.
"Is he gonna kill me?"
Angelo looked down at her. For the first time that night, he crouched--eye level. His voice was low, almost kind.
"Depends on how you tell it."
And then the headlights swept across the underside of the bridge. A long black Lincoln pulled up behind them. The kind of car that never shows up unless something really bad just happened.
Sophia dragged herself to her feet. Shoes gone. Knees bloody.
She faced the light.
Waited.
Erased
The Lincoln door opened slow.
Sonny Rossi stepped out.
No tie. Coat loose. Cigar already lit, untouched. Smoke curled around his head like something holy had rotted.
He didn't look at Angelo.
Didn't look at the car.
Just looked at Sophia.
Not with rage. Not even disappointment. Just absence.
She stood. Or tried to. Her knees gave once. She forced them steady.
"Sonny," she whispered.
He didn't speak. He just kept walking until the gravel cracked under his shoes and the distance between them was close enough for judgment.
She opened her mouth. Maybe to explain. Maybe to beg.
He raised a hand--slow, flat, quiet. Not to hit her.
To silence her.
"You're done," he said.
That was all.
Not screamed. Not threatened.
Declared.
She flinched. But she didn't cry. Not yet.
"If I hear you so much as breathe this story to a mirror," Sonny said, "I will have your bones boxed and buried where even God won't find 'em."
He took a long drag. Let the smoke curl between them.
"You don't talk to Angela. You don't see the kid. You don't come home."
Sophia nodded. Once. Sharp. Like swallowing glass.
He turned.
"Angelo," he said, voice flat. "Drive her wherever she wants. After tonight, she's no one."
And then he was gone. Back into the Lincoln. Into the heat. Into the war machine of the Calderone-Rossi legacy.
The car pulled away.
Angelo didn't speak for a long time.
Sophia stood in the dirt, barefoot and shaking, and realized she hadn't just lost a friend.
She'd lost her name.
"Tell Me About Her"
October 17, 2022 -- South Philly
Carrie was cross-legged on the floor, half-buried in cardboard boxes that smelled like old church bulletins and menthols. Angela's living room was a mess--photos scattered, yellowed papers curling at the corners, a half-empty glass of wine sweating on the end table.
She pulled the photo out like it bit her.
Two girls on a boardwalk. One blonde, one dark-haired, both grinning like they'd gotten away with something.
Summer of 1974. Atlantic City. The girl in green had her arm around the darker one, both of them tanned, tipsy, and undeniably alive.
Carrie turned it over. Nothing had changed. No names. Just "S & O"
She looked up.
Angela was in her chair, knitting nothing, eyes on the window even though it was dark outside.
"Ma," Carrie said.
Angela turned, slow. "Mm?"
Carrie held the photo up. "Tell me about her."
Angela blinked. Her face went through three expressions in five seconds. Surprise. Memory. Pain.
Then she smiled. The kind of smile that gets painted on like primer--smooth, even, and just thick enough to cover the rot underneath.
"Oh," she said softly. "That's my mother. That's Sophia."
Carrie sat still. Watching her.
Angela took the photo. Held it a little too long. Like if she stared hard enough, she could find a version of the truth that wouldn't bleed.
"She was..." Angela started, then stopped.
Tried again.
"She had a laugh that made people turn around. Not because it was pretty. It was loud. Sharp. Like she didn't care if the world heard her."
Carrie smirked. "That sounds familiar."
Angela chuckled, tight. "You get that from her."
Silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But heavy. Sticky. Like humidity you can't sweat out.
Carrie tried again. "Who's the other girl?"
Angela looked at her daughter. Really looked. Then handed the photo back.
"I don't know," she lied.
Carrie didn't believe her.
But she let it go.
For now.
The lighter was Angela's. Red plastic. Half-empty. Sat in a junk drawer with old takeout menus and expired coupons. Carrie had to shake it twice before it sparked.
She unfolded the clipping one last time. Her hands didn't shake. She'd read it so many times it barely looked like words anymore. Just shapes of absence. The obituary of a future that never happened.
"Given Mr. Rossi's connections..."
She laughed. Quiet. Ugly.
She held the flame to the corner. It caught slow--like it was thinking about it. The edges curled, then blackened, then opened like petals giving in.
Carrie watched the names vanish first. Then the dates. Then the headline.
She didn't flinch when the ash fluttered up, caught in the breeze from the kitchen fan. She didn't move when it scattered across the floor like snow made of ghosts.
It wasn't a fuck-you. Wasn't forgiveness.
Just fire.
The last line went up like a whisper.
And in the silence that followed, Carrie sat back on her heels, hands empty, and said,
"Now we're even."
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