Page 105 of The Voicemail

“Lucia,” she says. “It means light.”

My throat tightens. “Lucia,” I repeat.

Our daughter quiets against her mother’s chest.

EPILOGUE II

ELENA

Four Years Later

Lucia marches through the gallery like she owns it. One day, she probably will. For now, though, the gallery is mine.

After closing, she strides down the center of the main room, hands clasped behind her back, chin lifted, dark curls bouncing, wearing the exact serious expression her father gets when someone disappoints him professionally.

“This one is sad,” she announces, stopping in front of a blue abstract piece.

I lean against the reception desk and try not to smile. “Is it?”

“Yes. It needs a dog.”

“Most paintings can be improved by dogs.”

“That’s what I said.”

Alex stands near the sculpture alcove with our son asleep against his shoulder. Matteo is eighteen months old, warm and heavy and completely limp, one little fist tangled in his father’s shirt.

Alex looks absurd. Expensive suit. Ruthless face. Toddler drool on his collar. There’s a tiny dinosaur sticker on one cuff because Lucia put it there this morning and told him it was for courage. He hasn’t removed it.

I catch him watching me and know he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was admiring your sticker.”

“It’s for courage.”

“So I heard.”

Lucia spins around. “Papa needs it because Uncle Luca said the board meeting had idiots.”

“Lucia,” Alex scolds.

“What?”

“We don’t repeat everything Uncle Luca says.”

She frowns. “But was he wrong?”

I press my lips together.

Alex looks at me. “Do not laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”