“Are you still in Sicily? Why can’t you call more often? Are you eating? You sound thin.”
I almost laugh. The sound comes out wrong, too high, too sharp.
“You can’t hear thin, Ma.”
“A mother knows.” Her voice softens. “Violet, you have to take care of yourself. I read in Reader’s Digest that Sicily has a thriving organized crime... thing. The Mafia. You need to be careful.”
My eyes find Elio’s across the room.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“I’m fine, Ma. Completely safe.” The lie tastes like copper. Like blood. “I promise.”
“Your nieces have been asking about you. Molly drew you a picture—a purple cat, I think? Could be a horse. Hard to tell. And everyone misses you. Danny asks if you’re coming home for Christmas.”
Christmas.
“I miss you too.” My voice cracks on the last word. “I’ll call again soon, okay? I have to go.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you too, Ma.” I hang up before I break completely.
Elio takes the phone from my unresisting fingers, then tucks it into his pocket while watching me with an expression I can’t read.
“You’re a good liar,” he says.
“Thanks. Lots of practice.”
He hesitates. “For a mother who hasn’t heard from her daughter in three weeks she didn’t ask many questions.”
I look away. Out the window at the terraced gardens and lemon groves and the Mediterranean glittering in the distance.
“No,” I say quietly. “She never does.”
The notes slow. His breathing changes. Or maybe mine does. Two people who learned to survive by being invisible.
Fuck. Stop finding common ground with your kidnapper.
The library can’t holdme today.
I try. I pull a book from the shelf, something I’d normally devour, and force myself through the same paragraph four times. The words blur., rearrange themselves into nonsense. My fingers find my cheek again, to the spot where his thumb caught my tear.
Stop it.
I slam the book shut and stand.
The solarium. Lunch. Routine. Something to fill the hours until?—
Until what?
You’re waiting for him.
The thought lands with a sickening thud of recognition.
I’m waiting for him. Listening for his footsteps. Wanting?—
No.
