First small town. Showed her photo, asked at gas stations, convenience stores, roadside motels. No one had seen her.
Second town. Same thing.
Third.
Fourth.
Night fell. Streetlights came on one by one, illuminating empty streets.
I kept driving.
Drove to the last place I could track, a tiny town with just one main street, a few stores. I parked, took her photo, asked door to door.
No one had seen her.
I stood on the street. Late night wind poured into my collar. Cold.
Looked up. All around were unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar houses, unfamiliar darkness. She disappeared from here. Somewhere I didn't know about, she vanished. Like a drop of water falling into the ocean, never to be found again.
I got back in the car. Sat there.
The car was quiet. Only the faint light from the dashboard.
I spoke, voice soft.
"She's cold."
In the empty car, that voice sounded ridiculous.
"Doesn't even want the child."
Then I remembered how she looked in the delivery room—ripping out the IV, blood running down the back of her hand, crying, "Let me see her once, just once."
I remembered her standing at the nursery door, face pale, tears streaming down her cheeks, asking, "Can I see her?"
I remembered her staring at the baby in Bianca's arms, eyes full of longing.
But I stopped her, again and again, from seeing her own daughter!
Fuck, I'm a real bastard!
I closed my eyes, slammed my fist on the steering wheel.
The horn blasted a sharp note, exploded in the silent night, carried far, far away, then disappeared.
Nothing changed.
When I drove home, it was already dawn.
The living room lights were on. Bianca sat on the couch. Hearing footsteps, she immediately stood up.
"Ezio, you—"
I ignored her.
Went straight upstairs.
She followed.
