PART 2 — THE THINGS WE DON’T SAY

Anthony did not call the next day.

Or the day after.

He sent one message.

I’m sorry.

Nothing else.

No flowers.

No gifts.

No black car appearing outside my shop.

I told myself I was relieved.

Then I checked my phone fourteen times before lunch.

On Wednesday, a thunderstorm rolled across Rochester.

At six fifteen, the lights inside Corner Print flickered.

Then died.

I was standing on a stool trying to reach the breaker panel when someone knocked on the glass.

Anthony.

Rainwater darkened his black shirt.

I stared at him through the door.

He held up a toolbox.

I almost laughed.

Instead I unlocked the door.

“You cannot be serious.”

“You have no lights.”

“You own an electrical company now?”

“Among other things.”

“Of course you do.”

Thunder rolled somewhere over downtown.

He stepped inside.

“May I?”

I should have said no.

Instead I pointed toward the breaker room.

“Ten minutes.”

“Generous.”

“Eight.”

He smiled faintly.

Then went to work.

That was when I learned Anthony Russo had not lied about everything.

He knew electrical systems.

Not casually.

Not like a wealthy man who had watched employees work.

His hands moved with the confidence of memory.

He removed his watch.

Rolled his sleeves.

Tested the panel.

Found the burned connection.

“You’ve done this before,” I said.

“A long time ago.”

“Before becoming feared and mysterious?”

“During.”

“That must have been convenient.”

He glanced at me.

“You’re mean when you’re angry.”

“I’m delightful when I’m angry.”

“I noticed.”

Ten minutes later, half the shop returned to life.

The printer beeped.

The laminator groaned.

The OPEN sign in the window flickered red.

Anthony stood beneath it, watching.

I hated how ordinary he looked.

I hated how much I had missed ordinary.

“Who taught you?” I asked.

His hands stopped.

There.

Again.

That pause.

“A good man.”

“What happened to him?”

Anthony looked down at the screwdriver in his hand.

“He disappeared.”

The word hit somewhere old inside me.

I looked away.

“Mine too.”

His head lifted.

I had never told him that part.

Not really.

At dinner I had only said my father had “not been around.”

I sat on the edge of the counter.

“He was an electrician, actually.”

Anthony went completely still.

I noticed.

Of course I noticed.

“My father,” I continued. “Michael. He could fix anything with wires.”

Anthony’s face had drained of color.

“Emma—”

“He used to let me hold the flashlight when I was little. I was terrible at it. I’d get distracted and point it at the floor.”

Anthony closed his eyes briefly.

My stomach tightened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No.”

I stood.

“What?”

He opened his eyes.

There was grief in them.

Real grief.

And suddenly I was afraid.

“Did you know my father?”

Silence.

Rain struck the windows.

The little red OPEN sign buzzed above us.

“Anthony.”

He looked like a man standing in front of an oncoming train.

Then he said the worst possible thing.

“Not here.”

I stepped back.

“Oh my God.”

“Emma.”

“You knew him.”

“Yes.”

The room tilted.

“How?”

“Please.”

“How did you know my father?”

“I need to explain this properly.”

“You have thirty seconds.”

He put the screwdriver down.

Carefully.

Like any sudden movement might break me.

“Your father worked for my family.”

My mouth went dry.

“No.”

“Years ago.”

“No.”

“Emma—”

“My mother said he worked municipal contracts.”

“He did.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You expect me to believe my father worked for the Russo family?”

“He did electrical contracting. Warehouses. Restaurants. Signs.”

The first dinner came rushing back.

Lighting and signage.

Making sure things stay lit.

My skin went cold.

“That wasn’t your job.”

Anthony said nothing.

“It was his.”

His silence confirmed it.

I stared at him.

“You sat across from me and described my father’s job.”

“I described mine too.”

“Why?”

“Because he taught me.”

I could hear my heartbeat.

“What?”

Anthony rubbed one hand across his mouth.

“I was seventeen when I met Michael Bennett.”

I lowered myself onto the counter because suddenly my legs could not be trusted.

“My father disappeared when I was nine.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I know now.”

“Now?”

He nodded.

“I did not know who you were the first night.”

I searched his face.

“Don’t lie to me again.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then when?”

“After.”

“When after?”

“The morning after dinner.”

I laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“You researched me.”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

“I research everyone who gets close.”

“How romantic.”

“It isn’t.”

“No.”

My voice cracked.

“It really isn’t.”

Anthony stood motionless.

He did not defend himself.

“When I saw your surname,” he said, “I thought it might be coincidence.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No.”

“And you said nothing.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“You’re the man people in this city are afraid to disappoint, and you didn’t know how to have a conversation?”

“I was afraid you would never speak to me again.”

“That should have been my choice.”

“Yes.”

The answer hurt more because it was true.

I wiped at my face angrily.

“Is he dead?”

Anthony looked at me.

A long time.

“Yes.”

Everything inside me stopped.

I had imagined my father dead hundreds of times.

Sometimes because it hurt less than imagining him alive and choosing not to call.

But imagination was soft around the edges.

This was not.

“When?”

Anthony’s voice dropped.

“Three weeks ago.”

I stared at him.

The timeline struck me slowly.

Three weeks.

The restaurant.

The empty chair.

Something in Anthony’s face changed when he saw I understood.

“No.”

“Emma—”

“No.”

I stood so fast my hip hit the counter.

“Who were you waiting for that night?”

He did not answer.

He did not need to.

The air disappeared from the room.

My hand covered my mouth.

“No.”

Anthony stepped toward me.

I moved back.

“You were waiting for my father.”

“Yes.”

The word barely existed.

I could not breathe.

The two empty chairs.

One across from me.

One across from him.

My canceled date.

His mysterious “something like that.”

His expression when I talked about unfinished things.

The larger half of the pie.

Lighting and signage.

All of it shifted.

Not vanished.

Shifted.

Like a room when someone moves the only lamp.

“What happened?”

Anthony looked toward the dark window.

“Michael contacted me four months ago.”

“After how long?”

“Eleven years.”

I could barely form the words.

“You knew him before that?”

“Yes.”

Anthony leaned against the worktable.

“When I was seventeen, my father decided I needed to spend a summer learning the legitimate side of our businesses.”

“Your father.”

“Victor Russo.”

Even I knew that name.

A colder name.

A harder generation.

Anthony continued.

“I hated him. I hated the warehouse. I hated every man who called me sir because of my last name.”

His mouth tightened.

“Michael called me kid.”

Despite everything, I could see it.

“He taught me wiring because he said rich boys should know how to make something work before they learned how to own it.”

A sound escaped me.

Almost a laugh.

Almost a sob.

“That sounds like him.”

“I know.”

Anthony looked at me.

“He talked about a daughter.”

My heart clenched.

“Did he say my name?”

“Never.”

That hurt in a different place.

“He kept your photograph in his toolbox. You were maybe six.”

I closed my eyes.

“I had pigtails.”

“Yes.”

I looked at him sharply.

He knew.

“In one you were missing a front tooth.”

My throat closed.

That photograph had sat on our refrigerator.

My mother had lost it years ago.

Apparently she hadn’t.

Apparently my father had taken it.

“Why did he leave?”

Anthony did not answer quickly.

“Because he saw something he was not supposed to see.”

I waited.

“My father was using legitimate companies to hide things. Money. Payments. Pressure on city contracts. Michael discovered enough to become dangerous to him.”

“Did he go to the police?”

“He tried.”

My stomach twisted.

“What did Victor do?”

“He threatened you.”

Silence.

The storm outside seemed far away now.

“He told Michael that if he ever saw Rochester again, if he contacted you or your mother, Victor would know.”

My knees weakened.

“No.”

“Michael believed him.”

“My mother never told me.”

“She may not have known everything.”

“So he left us.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

Not he protected you.

Not he had no choice.

Yes.

“He left.”

I looked at him.

“Don’t make him a hero.”

“I won’t.”

“Because heroes come home.”

Anthony’s eyes glistened.

Barely.

“He should have.”

The agreement shattered something.

I turned away.

“When did the danger end?”

“My father died twelve years ago.”

I slowly looked back.

“And my father contacted you eleven years ago.”

Anthony understood before I spoke.

“He could have come home.”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Anthony swallowed.

“Shame.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Convenient.”

“I argued with him.”

“You argued?”

“I found him in Pennsylvania after I took control. I told him Victor was dead. Told him nobody would touch you.”

“And?”

“He asked me what he was supposed to say after ten years.”

My eyes filled.

“How about hello?”

Anthony looked away.

“I said something similar.”

“So he chose to stay gone.”

“For too long.”

“How long?”

Anthony did not answer.

I knew.

“Until he died.”

“He was sick.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No.”

My voice broke.

“He let me believe he didn’t love me.”

Anthony took a breath that trembled.

“He loved you.”

“You don’t get to tell me that.”

“No.”

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

“You knew for three weeks.”

“Yes.”

“You ate dinner with me. You texted me every morning. You kissed me outside the bookstore last Tuesday.”

He closed his eyes.

“You knew my father was dead.”

“Yes.”

“And you let me talk about him like he was some asshole who disappeared.”

“He did disappear.”

“Stop being honest now.”

“I don’t know what else to be.”

I stared at him.

Then I saw it.

A small black case inside his toolbox.

Old.

Worn.

Not Anthony’s.

I reached for it.

He moved.

“Emma.”

Too late.

Inside lay a voltage tester.

Electrical tape.

A stubby screwdriver with faded yellow plastic.

And scratched into the metal plate beneath the latch were two letters.

M.B.

I stopped breathing.

I remembered sitting cross-legged on our kitchen floor.

My father laughing.

Emma, flashlight.

Sorry.

Not my eyes, bug. The wires.

I touched the screwdriver.

My fingertips shook.

Anthony’s voice came from behind me.

“He gave me the box when I was seventeen.”

I turned.

And slapped him.

The sound cracked through the shop.

Anthony did not move.

A red mark rose slowly across his cheek.

My palm burned.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He shook his head.

“Don’t be.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t.”

His face broke then.

Only slightly.

That was worse.

“I know that too.”

I picked up my bag.

“Leave.”

“Emma—”

“Please.”

He nodded.

At the door, he stopped.

“There’s something else.”

I laughed through tears.

“Of course there is.”

He removed an envelope from inside his jacket.

My name was written across the front.

Not in Anthony’s handwriting.

I knew that handwriting.

Even after twenty-two years.

Rounded E.

Crooked B.

My father.

I backed away.

“No.”

“Michael gave it to me.”

“No.”

“He asked me—”

“I don’t want it.”

Anthony froze.

“Take it.”

“I said I don’t want it.”

“Okay.”

“Not today.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe never.”

His eyes lowered.

“Okay.”

He placed the envelope beside the register.

Then left.

The door closed.

I stood alone in the half-lit shop for a very long time.

Eventually my eyes found the envelope.

EMMA.

One word.

Four letters.

Twenty-two missing years.

I turned the OPEN sign off.

And for the first time in my life, I understood that sometimes an unfinished thing could hurt more after someone handed you the ending.

I did not open the letter that night.

Or the next morning.

Instead, I went to Riverside.

Louise was alone in the community room, stacking chairs.

She saw my face.

Then the envelope in my hand.

She sat down.

That was how I knew.

“You knew.”

Her eyes filled immediately.

“Oh, honey.”

“Don’t.”

She closed her mouth.

“How long?”

Louise looked at her hands.

“Almost all of it.”

I felt something inside me tear again.

“You knew he was alive?”

“Yes.”

“And you never told me.”

“He made me promise.”

“I was nine.”

“I know.”

“I was a child.”

“I know.”

“You watched me wait.”

Louise’s shoulders shook.

“I know.”

The anger came so fast I nearly choked on it.

“He sent letters to me,” she said.

I went still.

“What?”

“Not for you.”

That almost made me laugh.

“Updates.”

She wiped her face.

“He wanted to know if you were healthy. If you were doing well in school. After your mother died, whether you were eating. Whether Corner Print was surviving.”

I stared at her.

“You told him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought knowing you were safe was the only mercy I could give a broken man.”

I stood.

“He was not the broken one.”

“No.”

Louise looked up at me.

“You were.”

That stopped me.

No defense.

No justification.

Only the thing I had needed adults to admit twenty-two years earlier.

Louise reached for my hand.

I did not give it.

“He was a coward about coming home, Emma.”

Her voice cracked.

“But he was never a coward about loving you.”

I looked away.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“No.”

“It makes it worse.”

“Yes.”

I sat.

The room smelled like old coffee and floor wax.

Children had drawn suns and crooked houses on construction paper along one wall.

The Riverside marquee was visible through the front windows.

Dark.

Waiting.

I opened the envelope.

There were six pages.

I read the first line.

Then had to stop.

Emma,

There is no version of this letter where I deserve forgiveness, so I won’t ask for it.

My vision blurred.

I kept going.

He told me why he left.

Anthony had told the truth.

Victor Russo had threatened us.

My father had been terrified.

But then the letter changed.

Danger was the reason I stayed away the first years.

Cowardice was the reason for the rest.

I covered my mouth.

Louise cried beside me.

My father wrote about seeing my college graduation photograph.

My first shop.

My mother’s funeral notice.

Every birthday he had counted from somewhere else.

Then:

I kept telling myself I would come home when I had the right words.

There were never right words.

Only later words.

And eventually later became twenty-two years.

The final paragraph destroyed me.

You used to hold the flashlight wrong.

You would point it everywhere except where I needed it, and every time I got frustrated, you would tell me, “But Daddy, there are other things in the dark too.”

You were right.

I hope your life became brighter than the part of it I left dark.

I folded over the pages.

The sound that came out of me was not dignified.

It was not cinematic.

It was the sound of being nine years old again.

Louise moved beside me.

This time, I let her hold me.