Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
That settles it.
His exhale is a soft surrender, as are the words he speaks next. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
When he ends our call, I store my phone and turn back to face Camille. She hasn’t moved. She’s still exactly where I left her. The only difference is that her gaze is fixed on the street where Lucia vanished. She’s struggling to piece together a puzzle more complex than a child should take on.
“What are you thinking, stellina?”
She peers up at me with intense, searching eyes. Without her saying a word, I know what Lucia is trying to teach her matters, because the most valuable lessons aren’t taught; they’re experienced.
Chapter 17
Lucia
Karma bites my ass the instant I exit my building. Chilly air rushes through the thin sweater I insisted was “fine” while handing a thick winter coat to a homeless woman. As I drag the trash bag down the stairs, fingers stiff around the plastic, my breaths fog in the frigid evening air. I should have kept the stupidly warm coat Dante bought, but no. I had to be difficult.
I had to be me.
By the time I reach the bins at the side of my building, my toes are turning blue. I toss my trash bag in and then hurry back up the driveway. As I rub my arms, I curse myself. I may not survive my first Sicilian winter without a proper winter coat.
I slip inside my building, grateful for cover from the icy winds blowing off the coast. I’m about to lock the door when I notice movement through the stairwell window.
On the underground stoop, a woman is shielding her daughter from the wind with her body. The child’s face is buried so deeply in her tattered coat, only the top of her head is visible.
I don’t think. I never do.
After scanning the foyer to ensure no one is watching, I open the door, pushing against the wind, and motion for the woman and her daughter to come inside.
The woman cranks her neck back to me, and despite the exhaustion carved into her face, she shakes her head.
“It’s warm and dry,” I assure her, not wanting to push. Her trust is low for a reason. “You can sleep in my apartment. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
The child shivers, a small, involuntary tremor that seals her mother’s fate. She nods once before bracing the winds to cross the driveway.
After ushering them inside, I pull the door shut behind them before the icy breeze can follow, then guide them to the elevator. They continue to shiver even after we enter my apartment, where they can see every shadowed corner the homeless always search before resting.
Excluding the new entryway Dante’s contractors installed, the paint is peeling, and my furniture is old and unattractive, but to them, anywhere dry and safe is the equivalent of a palace.
“Stay here,” I say softly. “I’ll be right back.”
I gallop down the stairs two at a time, heart racing. It isn’t from fear, more urgency. The building supervisor’s words echo in my head as I enter the laundry room. People leave stuff behind all the time.
He wasn’t wrong. I return to my apartment carrying armfuls of mismatched blankets. They’re worn but clean. After handing two to the unnamed woman, I lay the rest along the wall, away from the door, and tuck them in as you would when making up a comfortable bed.
When the little girl’s curious eyes track my movements, I offer her a smile. She only blinks in return.
“You can sleep on the bed,” I tell the mother. “Unfortunately, it can only be for tonight, since my lease prohibits long-term guests. In the morning, I’ll take you to a shelter nearby.”
She stiffens as her pupils dilate to saucers. “We tried that one earlier.” A frightened shiver finalizes her reply. The volunteers from West Suffolk have never been homeless, and it shows. They also expect payment for services in terms other than money.
I pull out a pamphlet my backpack is never without. “Don’t go to the West Suffolk shelter. You want the one on Del Oro Street. They only take mothers and their children. It’s safe. They’ll feed you and help you figure out your next steps. Don’t go to the others. They’ll turn you away or… worse.”
Her grip tightens around her daughter.
“Del Oro,” she repeats quietly.
I nod. “Third building on the left. It has a blue awning. They open at six.” I hesitate before adding, “Say you already tried West Suffolk. They’ll know.”
Again, she nods, eyes shining now with relief instead of tears.
Suddenly aware of how tired they seem, I say, “I’ll leave you to rest.”
As I pull closed the curtains that separate my room from the living area, the little girl climbs onto the mattress, still wearing shoes. That isn’t unusual. Unless you want to risk losing them, keep your valuables on you at all times. I’m more shocked about how clean her shoes are. They’re too clean for the streets. Too new, and the hundreds of rainbow sequins that catch the light when she flops onto her back causes me to lose my appetite for life.