by Nichole Van
Tennyson pushed the door open wider, revealing Lucy tucked into the crook of his arm—lopsided smile on her face, red corkscrew curls escaping from her high ponytail. She sported a t-shirt with the word Jenius across the front.
My stupid, useless heart skipped a beat, speeding up.
Of course.
I swallowed and forced my eyes back to my brother’s face, visualizing strong walls around my mind. My loyalties were to him, regardless of what my wayward heart thought.
“Where you going?” I asked.
“The Forestry Club is doing some caterpillar rehabilitation down by the river.” Lucy sagged farther into Tennyson. “We’ll be making tiny leaf-lined dens for them strung together by literal daisy chains.”
A beat.
“Seriously?”
“Nah, I’m totally messing with you.” Lucy laughed, that brilliant bubble of sound. “We’re going to the movies. Come with us. Give yourself a break.”
Tennyson grinned and kissed her forehead.
Yeah. As much fun as it sounded to sit in a dark theater next to the lovey-dovey two of them . . .
“The caterpillars might have sold me, but just a movie?” I shrugged. “Thanks, but no thanks. Got a test to cram for.” I tapped my textbook.
Tennyson furrowed his forehead, obviously wanting to say something, but instead shrugged and slapped the door frame.
“Well, catch you later then.” He turned to go, wrapping his fingers around Lucy’s hand in the process.
“Have fun,” she said. “Found this and thought of you.”
She threw a small something at me with a good-natured, teasing grin. I snagged it out of the air with one gloved hand, watching as she waved and walked off with my brother, their happy voices floating down the hallway.
Deep breath.
I glanced down at the candy in my hand and chuckled.
A sour apple Jolly Rancher.
Bright green and shiny.
Ten
Prato, Italy
2016
Branwell
This was torture.
Honestly.
I loved my brother more than my own life, but this . . .
This was downright cruel.
Granted, if Tennyson knew how I felt, he would never have asked me to come here.
But Tennyson and Lucy . . . they were two sides of my heart. Declining to help either of them was not an option.
Which I guess just made me a sick masochist.
I prowled around Grace’s bedroom—ostensibly trying to decide what to touch first—but mostly feeling like a cat wanting to crawl out of its skin. The room didn’t hold much. A bed, dresser, nightstand. The police had clearly removed things already.
Lucy continued to outline everything that had happened, voice soft and breathy. Pain and loss lacing through every word.
I swallowed, the vision of her face as she opened the door vivid in my mind. Tear-streaked. Strained. Shocked. Surprised.
And, fleetingly, something else.
My heart wanted to label it longing, but that made no sense.
She had launched herself at me, practically collapsing onto my chest. So unexpected it bordered on surreal.
Lack of physical contact was the worst side effect, for lack of a better word, of my GUT.
No one touched me.
Ever.
Sure, living things have no sound. I could touch someone’s skin with no noise whatsoever.
But other people’s clothing, jewelry, accessories did have sound. And if you’ve ever tried to hug someone without touching their clothing . . .
As human beings, we’re hard-wired for touch.
To say I yearned for human connection was an understatement. When my mom or Nonna held my hand or cupped my face—cautiously, carefully—it soothed and comforted.
But the sensation of Lucy’s body snugged against mine. Warm. Soft. Flowing into me like molten chocolate—
I swallowed. Let out a slow breath.
Had she ever hugged me?
She was physically demonstrative and affectionate. Something I knew all too well. Watching her tease and cuddle and kiss Tennyson on a daily basis had been its own special level of hell.
But I couldn’t recall ever hugging her. And, trust me, I would have remembered.
So when she threw her arms around me, I should have politely held her. Patted her back. Offered friendly comfort.
But the shock of the moment—
I had done the exact opposite. Gathered her close and held on for dear life—breathed in her scent . . . lemon verbena and fresh air. She fit so perfectly.
Lucy burned bright in my mind’s eye. Same wild hair, same freckles. Same curvy body that had been made to hold against mine—
Stop. Just stop.
You have to be beyond her by now.
Tennyson’s face flashed across my mind. Bright blue eyes, haunted. The lines of his mouth drawn in pain.
The image washed all the warmth out of me.
What was I doing?
Man, I was a selfish jerk. Lucy and Tennyson both faced hardships. My one and only job should be to help them. Nothing more.
“So that’s where we are,” Lucy said, finishing up her story. “I don’t know what to do from here, Branwell.”
I felt the frustration and worry in her voice, no empath ability needed. Besides, I only ‘heard’ emotions clearly with my brothers.
From the corner of my eye, I noted her curled against the door frame, not quite in or out of the room. She clutched her cell phone in her hands and then self-consciously tugged down on her green ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’ shirt.
Ironic that shirt, in so many ways. She had always teased me with green things.
Her riotous red hair was piled loosely on top of her head into what could only be politely called a ‘messy bun.’ The slightest move looked like it would bring the whole mass down.
“The police haven’t shared any theories with you, I take it?” I asked.
She shook her head, causing her hair to wobble precariously. “No, though they certainly have them. Most of them involve me, I’m sure.” She paused. “You know I would never, ever hurt Grace, right?” Her words rang solid. True.
“Why do you think I’m here?”
A beat.
“Dante is coming, too,” I continued. “His gift isn’t as useful in this situation, but he wants to help where he can.”
Neither of us said the obvious: Dante could instantly tell us if we were looking for a little girl or a corpse—search and rescue versus search and recovery.
Lucy’s eyes filled again, tears and her shirt conspiring to turn them vividly blue-green. Azure eyes. Sunlight poured from the solitary window above Grace’s bed, spilling through the room and tangling in Lucy’s hair.
She looked so lost, so alone, her lip trembling as she swiped at her cheeks.
“Do you have any video of Grace?” I asked. “I want to hear her voice.”
“So you’ll recognize it?” She had always been quick, my Lucy.
“Precisely.”
Sound was so much more than just sound for me. It was this hyper-aware sense. Most people could recall the face of someone they had met previously. I was okay with faces, but sounds? I had a razor-sharp memory for the unique tone of someone’s voice. The timbre, accent, speech pattern—it all painted a distinct image for me.
Lucy pushed off of the door frame and crossed the room to sit on the edge of Grace’s bare mattress. She swiped into her phone, hunting for some video.
“Here she is two days ago at the gelato shop.”
Lucy angled the phone screen toward me and scooted slightly. I picked up the hint and sat down next to her, looking over her shoulder. Lucy disregarded the polite space I had left between us and leaned into my arm, showing me Grace.
A cute little girl gazed up at the camera—big brown eyes under a cloud of dark, curly hair. A display case of gelato behind her.
“You’s videoing me Aunt Lucy?�
�� Grace, high and piping.
“Yep.” Lucy’s familiar breathy voice, closer to the camera. “What kind of gelato did you say you wanted?”
Grace drew her brow down in confusion. “I just told you. I want cholocate.”
“Cholocate?” Lucy again, mimicking Grace’s mispronunciation.
“Yeah. Why you keep making me tell you over and over, Aunt Lucy? We need to tell the gelato man that I want cholocate.” Grace waved a hand toward the bemused employee behind the counter.
Lucy giggled. “You’re right. Let’s get some cholocate, Gracie Pie.”
The video blinked off.
Something wet hit my gloves.
I jerked a look to Lucy, who quickly sat back, wiping her eyes.
“Sorry,” she hiccupped, sniffling. “Was that enough? I can find another one.”
“No, it’s good. I got it.”
No way would I forget the sound of that cute kid.
My heart sank, leaden in my chest. Up to this point, I had been focusing on Lucy. The torment of seeing her again, wanting to ease her sorrow over Grace’s disappearance.
But now . . . Grace had a face and a voice. A sense of urgency swamped me.
What had happened to her?
Lucy was the prime suspect. Caretakers always were. Obviously, I knew Lucy was innocent. So who had been involved with Grace’s disappearance? Who else would have had access to the apartment?
There was only one way to find out.
I stood up and tugged off the glove of my right hand. A little like unsheathing a sword—a useful weapon that could cut you if you weren’t careful.
Though it was warm in the room, the air felt cool and unsettled against my skin.
Some days, I thought of my gloves as a cocoon. Other days, they just felt like a trap. A chain. A physical symbol of everything that separated me from the rest of the world.
But in a situation like this . . .
“Did the police say anything about not touching the handprint?” I gestured toward the dresser drawer. The bloody print would be a safe place to start.
“They told me not to wash it off. Touching it is probably implied in that, but . . .”
“But this is an extenuating circumstance?”
“Exactly.”
Lucy leaned forward, obviously anticipating what I might hear.
“Let me set your expectations,” I said. “It’s been over twenty-four hours since Grace vanished. Blood cells can live outside the body for hours, and I only hear non-living things. So the only sound attached to the blood will be what was going on around it when the blood cells finally died.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “So the chances of you hearing what happened when Grace touched the dresser—”
“—are extremely low,” I finished the thought for her. “But I will listen to anything that might possibly be helpful.”
“Got it.” Lucy chewed on her cheek, clearly on edge.
Ever so gently, I placed the tip of my pinkie finger on an area where the blood was the thickest.
“—think we’re going to find a living body?” A man’s voice. Italian. The rustling of a plastic bag.
“Beh. Who knows? It doesn’t look good.” Another man, also Italian.
“The American woman is taking it hard.” A scraping noise.
“Yes, she is. Maybe a little too hard, if you catch my drift—”
I bit back a curse. My sense of urgency ratcheted up.
I pushed back farther with my GUT, trying to hear more from the blood. All I got was a hum of muffled voices and static.
I stood back, breaking contact with the dresser, giving Lucy a slight shake of my head.
Now what?
Taking a deep breath, I surveyed the room. What objects would contain helpful sounds? And which ones would be safe?
I hated touching things that I hadn’t altered first.
The risk . . . the danger . . .
I darted a glance down at the faint, thin scars running across the back of my hand.
Shiny objects were the most . . . fraught. The brass knobs on Grace’s dresser screamed ‘Touch Me and Die.’
So I started with the least shiny things in the room and, quite honestly, those most easily damaged and therefore most susceptible to change:
Fabrics.
Curtains. Bedding. Clothing.
If I heard something useful, then I would dig deeper into the past, listening to the sound around each moment of change. I could feel Lucy’s eyes on me as I worked my way through the room.
Rustling. The chatter of voices in Chinese, Vietnamese, Hindi. The zip zip of sewing machines.
Normal.
The fabric of a child-size chair farthest from the door was the only difference.
“No! No! Grace Abigail Snow!” A woman’s voice. Angry. “What are you doing with those scissors?”
“Nothin’, Mama. I gots nothin’.”
Fabric moving. Footsteps.
“I swear, Gracie, you will be the death of me.”
I smiled. Grace was so busted. And bonus—now I knew her mother, Jen’s, voice too.
I lifted my hand and touched the chair again, restarting the sound, just to better etch their voices into memory.
I concentrated on the fabric, moving farther into the past. But the next sound was of a sewing machine and factory, so no more there.
Finishing with the fabrics, I moved on to wood. I studied the window, looking for scrapes or any sign of alteration. Nothing appeared disturbed.
I touched the wooden window sill.
The swoosh of a paint brush. Far off voices calling in Italian.
I moved farther up the window, listening to the carved trim. Nothing helpful.
Tabletop, the feet of things, the dresser, armoire and wooden bed frame. Nothing atypical or unexpected. Sounds of workers painting or items scraping.
Frustrated, I studied the room again.
I had touched everything that looked like it had been altered in any way but had come up empty-handed.
Lucy met my gaze, questioning.
“Nothing unusual.” I shook my head. “But let me listen to the rest of the apartment.”
“Thank you for being here.” Lucy stood up, rubbing her hands on her thighs. She looked pale—or rather, paler than normal.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
She raised her blue eyes to mine, unfocused as if thinking.
“You can’t remember, can you?” I shook my head.
She shrugged.
I motioned for her to follow me back into the entryway, where I snagged the bag Nonna had packed. With Lucy at my heels, I walked into the salotto to the left of the front door—the living room, I supposed, in English.
The salotto appeared to have always been a drawing room of some sort. White walls with carved wainscoting. Worn flagstone floor laid in a diamond pattern. There was an antique fireplace at one end with a gilded mantel and mirror above, all dating from the Baroque era. Two huge floor-to-ceiling windows faced the large piazza outside. The dark beams on the ceiling had been painted at one point and traces of gold, green and red still clung to them.
A large slip covered couch—white, of course, like the rest of furniture—sat underneath the windows. Club chairs and a coffee table perched opposite. Several end tables and knick knacks rounded out the room.
Lucy curled up into a corner of the sofa, darting a questioning glance at the bag in my hands.
“Nonna figures food will cure everything.” I set the sack next to her. “I have no idea what she put in there.”
“Some tranquilizers and a fifth of good vodka?”
That was my plucky girl. “One could always hope.”
She unpacked the bag—panini, grapes and two slices of my favorite lemon cake. No vodka. But comfort food never hurt in a crisis.
“I’m not hungry, so you eat up. I’m going to listen to the room.” I surveyed the space.
What to avoid touching unless absolutely ne
cessary? What was shiny?
The mirror over the mantel, the glass top of the coffee table, a silver vase on an end table. Those items had ‘Touch Me at Your Own Risk’ written all over them.
Like with Grace’s bedroom, I started with the soft surfaces. I rested a hand on the couch slipcover.
The whirring of a sewing machine. The snip of scissors.
Nothing helpful. There had to be a clue somewhere.
“Who else had a key to the apartment?” I asked, pulling my hand back.
Lucy tentatively nibbled on a prosciutto and mozzarella panino, her appetite obviously lacking.
“As far as I know, only the people upstairs. A mother and her son—Cat Lady and Professor Ross.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if those really were their names.
“Cat Lady and Professor Ross?” A grin twitched my lips.
“I think their real names are Maria-Teresa and Roberto Moretti. But Cat Lady really likes cats. I mean, like really, really likes them.” Lucy picked at the bread, barely eating anything. “And Professor Ross is this uncanny Italian version of Ross from Friends. Kinda nerdy and awkward, though I understand he is an actual professor.”
Lucy paused, licking her lips as she met my gaze, looking so lost. She was the even keel one. I knew this. No matter how stressful things had gotten with Tennyson, she always held herself together. So it wasn’t surprising she was coping better than most in her situation. But even ever-sunny Lucy had hit her limit.
Everything within me wanted to ease her pain. Or, at the very least, give her a reason to smile.
“You know the Italians have a specific word for ‘cat lady.’”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
She cocked her head at me, wild hair lurching to one side of her head. “You know you can’t do that, right?”
“What?”
“You know. That thing. The one where you drop some tantalizing piece of information and leave it hanging. It drives people crazy.”
“You mean it drives my brothers crazy?” I caved and grinned. “Because that’s one hundred and ten percent why I do it.”
She smiled too. Tentative but there. Lopsided. Achingly familiar.