“Not really.”
“Relatives?”
She shakes her head.
Just the two of them then.The thought makes me grip the steering wheel harder. “What else?”
“What?”
“Noah. What kind of kid is he?”
She blinks. “I—why?”
“Because we are driving through the night looking for him,” I say calmly. “It will help to know who we are looking for.”
She considers that. “He’s a good kid. Never gets into trouble, always does what he’s told.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s picky, though,” she says eventually.
“Picky.”
“With food.”
“That is a crime in most Italian households.”
“I know,” she says weakly.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
“He won’t eat gelato unless it’s real Italian gelato.”
“Smart child.”
She laughs. A small, surprised sound. The first one since we left the restaurant.
“He is very stubborn.”
“A trait he did not inherit from you, I’m sure.”
“Ha.”
“He sounds like a man of good taste anyway.”
“He is,” she says softly. “He’s my little man.”
Something warm flickers in her expression when she says it. Pride. Love.
It is… disarming.
“How old is he?” I ask.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because children behave differently at different ages.”
She still hesitates.
