Chapter 39 - Stolen Product

Chapter 39: Chapter 39 - Stolen Product

Carrie took a breath.

She looked down at the white tablecloth. At the candlelight flickering against her wine glass. At her own hands, folded in her lap.

And then she told him the truth.

"His name is Angus Dent," she said quietly. "He’s a dealer. Not a big one. Small time. But mean. Really mean." She swallowed. "My little sister, Aileen, got mixed up with him about a year ago. She thought he was cool. Dangerous, exciting. She started doing little jobs for him. Holding things. Moving things."

Jesse said nothing. He just listened.

"About six months ago, she was supposed to deliver a package for him. Thirty thousand dollars’ worth of product. And she lost it." Carrie’s voice cracked. "She got mugged by two guys in the subway. She fought but couldn’t get it back. They ran away with the product."

She pressed her fingertips against her eyes.

"Angus came to our apartment the next day. He said Aileen owed him thirty grand, and if she couldn’t pay, she’d have to work it off another way." She looked up at Jesse, her grey eyes shining. "He said he knew people. People who’d pay a lot of money for a pretty young girl like her. People who’d take her somewhere far away, and I’d never see her again."

Jesse’s jaw tightened.

"So I made a deal with him," Carrie went on. "I said I’d pay it off instead. Whatever it took. I’d do whatever he wanted, as long as he left Aileen alone." She let out a bitter laugh. "And what he wanted was a pretty girl to sit at bars and lure drunk guys into alleys."

The candle flickered between them.

Jesse studied her face.

"Why didn’t you find another way to pay him?" he asked. "A loan. A second job. Anything."

"You think I didn’t try?" Carrie shook her head. "I’m a waitress, Jesse. I make maybe six hundred a week if the tips are good. Rent’s almost two grand a month. Aileen’s been trying to get gigs singing, but she barely makes anything." She looked away. "And my acting hasn’t really helped. If I could just book one real role. One TV show. One movie. Something that actually paid."

She laughed again, quieter this time.

"But I haven’t booked anything in almost two years. It’s just rejection after rejection after rejection. I got another one this morning. A recurring role on a crime show. I really thought I had it." She shrugged, and her shoulders trembled slightly. "Honestly, I’ve been thinking about quitting. Maybe I’m just not good enough. Maybe I was kidding myself this whole time."

The room went quiet.

Jesse sat back in his chair and looked at her.

At the tears she was trying so hard not to let fall. At her hands twisting in her lap. At the woman who’d come back into that alley and dragged him half a mile to a hospital, when she could have just walked away.

’Is she lying?’ he asked silently.

[Replaying everything she just said.]

[Checking her heart rate.]

[Checking for lie markers.]

[No, host. She is being entirely truthful.]

Jesse let out a slow breath.

’I figured,’ he thought. ’I just wanted to be certain.’

He’d seen it in her face last night, even through the pain. The way she’d begged Angus to stop. The way she’d pleaded with Jesse to just give up the passcode so it would be over. She hadn’t wanted any of it.

’So the only real bad guy here is Angus.’

[Apparently so, Host.]

Jesse’s fingers curled slowly around the stem of his wine glass.

He thought about the brute’s fist slamming into his stomach. The boots. The hand crushing his groin. The cigarette breath against his ear. The laughter.

And now this. A man who threatened to sell a twenty-two-year-old girl to strangers over a lost bag.

Jesse couldn’t possibly prove it but he suspected that thirty thousand dollars worth of "products" wasn’t missing.

That bastard probably took it and still wanted to rip off these young ladies for every penny they are worth.

’Then I need to bring him down,’ Jesse thought. ’By any means necessary.’

The velvet curtain swept aside.

"Your antipasti," Luca announced cheerfully.

He set down two plates. The burrata gleamed white and creamy on a bed of red and yellow and purple tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and scattered with torn basil. The carpaccio was paper-thin and rosy, dusted with shaved Parmesan and arugula and a few drops of lemon.

"Buon appetito."

He was gone again.

Carrie stared at the food. She didn’t pick up her fork.

How could she eat? After everything she’d just told him? She’d laid out every awful thing she’d done, and now she was supposed to sit here and eat burrata like nothing had happened?

She stayed perfectly still, hands in her lap, waiting for him to tell her what came next. The police. The handcuffs.

Jesse picked up his own fork. He looked at her untouched plate. Then up at her.

"Eat," he said.

"I’m not really—"

"Carrie." His voice was calm but firm. "Eat."

She hesitated. Then she slowly picked up her fork.

Jesse watched her take a small bite of burrata.

"And don’t worry about Angus," he said, cutting into his carpaccio. "I’ll take care of him."

Carrie froze with the fork halfway to her mouth.

She stared at him.

He said it so casually. So simply. Like he was telling her he’d pick up the check. Like Angus Dent, the man who’d broken noses and threatened to sell her sister and kicked Jesse himself half to death, was just a small chore on his to-do list.

She slowly lowered her fork and took the bite.

The burrata melted on her tongue, rich and creamy and cool. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

She barely noticed.

All she could think, as she chewed and swallowed and watched the man across the table calmly eating his dinner, was one thing.

How?

How could he possibly take care of Angus?