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“One thing happened that seemed odd.”
“What’s that?”
“Carolina walked me to the door and said it’s time we all went out for Italian again. And then she suggested we make a night of it and go back to Dominici in the North End.”
“Why is that odd?”
“Two things, unless I’m losing my memory, we’ve never eaten at Dominici either with the Clarksons or alone.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“Carolina was whispering when she said it. She even looked over her shoulder once as though she was checking to see if Ben could hear her.”
When I was still wide awake at four in the morning, I figured I might as well drive to Little Italy.
31
Sloane
When I opened my eyes, I knew I was on the floor. Otherwise, nothing looked familiar to me. Something was wrong, really wrong. I had to get to my phone, but I couldn’t remember where I’d left it.
I tried to raise my head, but God, it hurt. My head was throbbing—pounding—so hard it was impossible to think.
Cramps. It wasn’t just my head; my stomach hurt as well. The cramping was so bad that I tried to wrap my arms around my midsection, but they felt so heavy.
I inched one hand down and felt something damp. What was that? I looked. Blood. The baby.
Oh my God, the baby.
“Help!” I tried to shout, knowing there was no one close enough to hear me.
32
Tackle
I’d been walking for almost two hours with absolutely no idea of what I hoped to find. I concentrated my efforts on the block where the Dominici restaurant was located, but traipsed around neighboring streets too.
One by one, coffee shops and bakeries were rolling up their steel gates, turning on lights, and dragging tables and chairs out to the sidewalk. I checked my phone. It was almost six: the time most of them officially opened.
Even if the bizarre conversation my mother had had with Carolina meant that Sloane was staying somewhere near Dominici, I had no idea how I’d be able to find her.
I stared up at the buildings surrounding me. Each one was filled with either office suites or luxury apartments above the street-level shops. Each might have as many as a hundred living spaces, particularly the ones with th
irty stories or more.
“Sloane, where the hell are you?” I muttered out loud, scanning the high-rises as if she’d come out on the balcony of one and I’d spot her.
“You’re too early if you’re looking for Sloane,” said a kid sweeping the sidewalk in front of a coffeehouse.
“You know somebody by that name?”
“Really pretty, stomach out to here?” The kid, who couldn’t be more than ten or eleven, held his hand out in front of him.
Rather than respond, I took the photo I’d brought with me out of my pocket. “This her?” I asked, handing it to him.
“Yep. That’s Sloane.”
“Have you seen her?”
