My name is Eveline. Eveline Tate.
I am the daughter of Lucas and Rebecca Tate. Yup, THE Lucas and Becca Tate. Don't ask me why, but I grew up knowing that they are someone important. Uncle Mike is still working for dad, as his bodyguard. I used to...
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"Eve, honey, can you please grab some chocolate bars for me on your way home?" mom says over the phone after I barely had the chance to say 'hey, Mamma, I'm on my way.'
The classes today have exhausted me to my bones. I have been in school for the past ten hours, had a court staged in the class for one of the famous murder cases that have shaken NY ten years ago and which is still unsolved.
And guess what? I've smelled uncle Mike around that case.
I tried as much as I could to keep myself away from the action, stayed in the back, and listened until the professor called me in front, and I had to involve.
Don't judge me, I'm not the one to be happy about the awful murder of someone but that guy, burned to his teeth, was some human trafficker who kidnapped girls to sell in Europe, most probably sex slaves.
And it wasn't like I didn't know Enzo had exclusivist clubs of the kind in Italy, but hey, women were free to choose if they wanted that sort of life.
So, by the end of the day the victim was actually the murderer, not of himself (God, I love the play of words) but of some victims found dead and to which he was linked, and I dragged everybody's concentration to the point of nobody believing him to be a victim anymore.
Well, finally the professor had stated his conclusion in the end: case classified, with not enough proof.
The victim was brought to the state of being accused post-mortem and I was satisfied because cases like this had been my motivation to study here.
Having not enough proves to lead to the murderer of the human trafficker, by the end of the class the case was officially closed (at least in our play).
The class is ended so I'm now rushing towards Jason's car who is waiting for me outside to drop me at mom and dad's, like every day since dad is back.
"Hey, Jas," I tell him once I get in the car. "We need to buy mom chocolate bars on our way home, or she will have my head," I tell him while buckling up.
"Hey, to you, too. How was your day?" he asks, leaning over for a quick hug.
In the past two weeks, we've grown to be some sort of friends. He's my guard, again, watching over my safety. I'm a brat, like usual, giving him a shitty hard time. Like a really hard time.
I've developed a habit of sending him in the middle of the night to buy me different things I'm craving like hell for, the strangest staff.
"I want ravioli."
"I want tomato pasta."
"I am dying for some strawberries," I would tell him, sitting next to him on the living room sofa where he's usually sleeping, pocking him between his ribs to wake up.
He has never said no, standing up with a groan, throwing whatever over his shoulders, and walking out on the door, half-sleeping still.
Once he fell asleep in his car while waiting for the tomato pasta to be ready and didn't come back for three hours.
