Cheering erupted somewhere, but my ears had already started ringing. A merciless cold sensation pooled in my chest and seeped through me.
I blinked, and I wasn’t in Venice anymore. I was back in that room. Cynthia dropped to the floor. Blood was everywhere. Half of her face was missing. My own scream was trapped in my throat.
Another firework exploded. The crack split the air like gunfire.
Nausea twisted in my gut. I had to get away. Now!
I spun around and took off, the pig statue still clenched in my hand.
“Hey!” the shopkeeper shouted from behind, but I pushed through the crowd. Elbows shoved my sides. Voices rose around me, confused and annoyed. Bodies shifted just enough for me to slip between them. Somewhere behind me, the shopkeeper kept yelling, but I couldn’t turn back. Not until the noise faded. Not until I could breathe.
Then my foot caught on a raised cobblestone. The ground rushed up fast, and I hit hard.
“You no pay!” the shopkeeper shouted, suddenly right in front of me. “You pay now!”
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, fumbling for my purse. My hands trembled. Nothing worked. A roll of euro bills slipped from my grip and scattered across the stones.
Another firework cracked overhead, and my hands flew to my ears, trying to block it out. But the sound was too sharp,too close. My ears rang again, high-pitched and piercing, like a scream trapped inside my skull.
“Stop,” I whispered. “Stop. Please stop.”
But it didn’t stop.
“Stooop!” I finally screamed, my voice cracking.
Suddenly, Daniel was beside me, dropping to his knees. His strong, steady arms wrapped around me. Instantly, I felt calmer. Safer.
“Show’s over,” he barked. “Keep moving!”
For the first time, I noticed the crowd that had gathered around me. Faces I didn’t recognize. Eyes locked on me. Some people were grinning, while others looked confused. A few phones were raised, recording my misery for social media views.
Shouting angrily in Italian, the shopkeeper stepped in to help Daniel. He motioned for people to leave and even shoved a few. It worked. The crowd drifted off in small groups, still muttering.
Daniel pulled me back to my feet. “Thank you,” he said to the shopkeeper, holding up several fifty-Euro bills.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” I added, so freaking ashamed.
But the bulky, short man ignored the money. Instead, he picked up the pig statue from the ground and handed it to me. “For you,” he said, his eyes soft and full of pity. “No pay. Gift.”
“Oh, no. Please let me pay. I’m so sorry about all this.”
But he just squeezed my hand, then turned and rushed back to his store.
Daniel helped me to a quiet little table tucked in a side street far from the festival. The buzz of the crowd was gone. It was just the smell of roasted coffee, a breeze brushing my face, and church bells ringing faintly in the distance.
We sat in silence. My eyes locked on the pig statue in my hand. I thought about poor Cynthia, but also about myself. I’dturned into a crazy person—a full-blown spectacle for an amused crowd.
I looked up at Daniel. He sat there, impossibly elegant in crisp white suit pants and a fitted shirt. Brown leather shoes. Expensive sunglasses hooked neatly into the collar of his shirt.
My savior.
And yet, he was still a stranger in so many ways.
Cynthia’s voice—sharp and certain—echoed in my head. She’d always questioned how little I actually knew about Daniel. How the nightmares had started right after we met. And if I was being honest, he didn’t really know me either. How could he? I didn’t even know myself. My whole childhood was a blur. The memory gaps were wide enough to fall through.
My gaze dropped back to the pig. “You...” I started carefully. “You told me you were born and raised in Boston.”
It came out of nowhere, taking him off guard. He leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. “I don’t think I said that.”
