Chapter 7: The Rosary

"Sunday," I said. "I'll be there."

My father hung up without saying goodbye.

He never had.

That night, in Dario's guest room, I opened my suitcase to pack for Palermo.

I went through it twice.

Then I sat on the floor.

My mother's rosary was not in it.

Olive-wood beads, worn pale where her thumb had moved over them for thirty years.

It was the only thing I had taken from Palermo at nineteen.

It was in the nightstand drawer on my side of Brent's bed.

I had packed my passport and forgotten my mother.

Dario was reading in the front room when I came down with my coat on.

He looked at the coat, then at my face.

"The penthouse," he said.

"There's something of my mother's there."

He put his book down and stood.

"I'll go by myself," I said.

"My driver takes you and waits outside the door of the building. If you're not down in twenty minutes, he comes up."

"Fine."

"And Giulia." He handed me my scarf from the hook. "You don't owe that man a conversation."

It was almost eleven when I let myself in.

My key still worked.

He hadn't thought of it.

The lights in the living room were on low.

Brent was on the couch in his shirt from the press conference, the collar open, a glass of scotch on his knee.

The bottle on the table was two-thirds gone.

Papers were spread across the coffee table.

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