Kingsley Salvatore
I pulled into the parking lot of the little café on 7th around eight-thirty, the same place I always stopped when I wanted to bring Mariah something decent to eat.
She lived in that small apartment above the old bakery on Maple, the kind of place with creaky stairs and thin walls, and no matter how many times I offered to pay her rent or buy her groceries, she’d give me that look....the one that said she still had her pride and her dignity and she wasn’t about to let me take them from her.
So I stopped trying to pay her bills. Instead I brought food. Good food. Warm food. Things she could heat up when she got home late from the mansion and didn’t have energy to cook.
Tonight I was thinking pasta from the Italian place two streets over, the one with the creamy mushr
