“No,” I said.
He lowered his head.
“But you can fix the back lock,” I added.
His eyes lifted.
“Do not mistake that for forgiveness.”
“I won’t.”
“And if you frighten them—”
“I would cut off my own hand first.”
The violence of the vow should have unsettled me. Instead, shamefully, it sounded like the man I had once loved.
That evening, Luca Moretti knelt in the back hallway of Pike’s Bakery with a screwdriver in his hand while my daughter watched from the stairs.
“You’re very big,” Lena announced.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Are you a bad man?”
The screwdriver stopped.
I froze in the kitchen doorway.
Luca looked at my daughter, and in his face I saw every sin he had ever committed stand up to answer her.
“Yes,” he said finally. “But I am trying not to be.”
Lena considered this.
“Mama says trying matters.”
Luca’s eyes moved to me.
“Yes,” he said. “Your mama is wise.”
Ash appeared beside Lena, clutching his rabbit by the ears. He studied Luca for a long time.
Then he asked, “Do you make thunder?”
Luca’s face changed.
“No,” he said gently. “But I can sit with you when it comes.”
Ash did not answer.
But he did not run away.
And in our little hallway, beneath a flickering light, something more dangerous than fear entered the house.
Hope.
## PART FOUR: THE SISTER’S LETTER
The package arrived two mornings later, wrapped in brown paper and tied with butcher’s string.
No return address.
Mrs. Pike found it on the bakery counter before dawn, placed between the register and the display case as neatly as an offering. No one had broken the lock. No window was disturbed.
Luca opened it with a knife from his boot.
“Of course you carry a knife in a bakery,” I said.
He glanced up. “Would you prefer I borrow Mrs. Pike’s shotgun?”
“Touch my shotgun and lose a finger,” Mrs. Pike called from the kitchen.
Inside the paper was a tin music box.
My stomach dropped.
It had belonged to Vanessa when she was little. Pink enamel. A painted ballerina on the lid. Our mother had bought it secondhand from a church sale. Vanessa used to wind it before bed and say the ballerina danced because someone had to.
I had not seen it since the night I left Chicago.
Lena reached for it.
“No,” Luca and I said together.
She pulled back, offended.
“I was only looking.”
Luca softened. “I know, little one.”
She frowned. “I’m not little. I’m three and a half.”
“My apologies.”
Ash stood behind me, silent as ever, staring at the box with open dislike.
I lifted the lid.
The ballerina did not dance.
Instead, beneath the velvet lining, there was a folded sheet of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges though the ink looked fresh.
My name was written across it in Vanessa’s hand.
**Sarah.**
My knees nearly failed.
Luca pulled out a chair. I sat because standing seemed suddenly ambitious.
The letter was short.
**If you are reading this, then one of two things is true: either I failed to keep them away, or I am finally done being afraid. The man you saw that night was not Luca. His name is Matteo. He has Luca’s face and none of his mercy. I thought I could use him to get free of Enzo. Instead, Enzo used me to break you.**
I stopped reading.
Preview
The room had gone quiet. Even the ovens seemed to hold their breath.
Luca stood across from me, pale beneath his olive skin.
I forced myself to continue.
**I was jealous of you. That is the ugliest truth I own. You were always the good one, the brave one, the one people kept. I wanted someone to choose me first. Matteo did. Or I believed he did. By the time I understood what he was, the trap was already closing.**
A tear struck the page.
Mine.
**The envelope I gave you had two sets of instructions. The visible ones were Enzo’s. The hidden ones were mine. I hoped you would remember Mama’s rule: never trust a gift without checking the seams. You did not check. You ran. I do not blame you. I sounded cruel because Enzo was listening. I smiled because if I cried, he would know.**
I covered my mouth.
Our mother’s rule.