Chapter 8: Section Nine

Clive's POV

Maureen Foley made me tea in her own kitchen on Tuesday afternoon, and I drank it, because I had known her since I was nineteen.

She still had the framed photo on the fridge of Brendan and me at our college graduation, both of us squinting.

"I won't ask you to take sides, Clive," she said. "You've been like a second son."

"Then don't ask me anything about Justine," I said.

"I don't want to talk about Justine."

She sat across from me with her hands folded.

"I want to talk about that poor girl," she said. "Gianna. Do you know what she went through?"

"I know what she's told me."

"She lost a baby in Florence, at six months. Brendan's baby."

I put the cup down.

"When?"

"Five years ago, the year she left. He flew over the same night, and he came home thinner than I've ever seen him."

"A little girl. Something wrong with her heart, or her chromosomes. They could not save her."

"Did you ever see the grave?"

"I never asked to," she said. "It was too painful for him. He goes alone."

"He told you where it is?"

"Why would I need to know where?"

I looked at the photo on the fridge.

I wanted to ask her if she had ever seen a single paper.

A hospital form, a letter, anything.

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