Chapter 7: The Thing Mia Remembered
Rosa sat on the edge of the guest house bed with her hands folded in her lap, watching her daughter.
Mia was at the small writing desk by the window, drawing.
She drew the way she did everything — seriously, without looking up.
"Mia," Rosa said carefully.
"The men outside.
Are you frightened?"
"No," Mia said.
"Mr.
Lorenzo put them there."
"Yes."
"Then they're good." Mia kept drawing.
"He has kind eyes.
Even when he's sad."
Rosa looked at the door.
One of Dante's men was visible through the narrow window beside it — a broad shoulder, a still posture.
A knock came.
Dante's voice: "Signora Rosa.
Mr.
Rinaldi would like to speak with Mia, if you're willing.
He'll come here."
Rosa looked at her daughter.
Mia looked up from her drawing for the first time.
"Tell him yes."
Lorenzo came in the wheelchair — the old one, not the custom cushioned one Celeste had arranged.
He stopped just inside the door.
The room was small and warm and smelled like the soap Rosa used.
"Mia," he said.
"I want to ask you something.
You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
"Okay," she said.
"Before today.
Before you found the capsule.
Did you ever see anyone put something in my wheelchair?
Or near it?"
Mia was quiet for a moment.
"I saw the lady," she said.
"Which lady?"
"The pretty one.
With the rings." Mia touched her own fingers.
"She had a small bottle.
Like the ones in Mama's medicine cabinet but smaller.
She opened the cushion at the side — there's a little zip — and she put something inside.
Then she zipped it back."
Rosa's hand went to her mouth.
"When was this?" Lorenzo asked.
Mia thought.
"Before Christmas.
The first time.
Then I saw her do it again in February.
I remember because it was the day it snowed and I was watching from the window seat and she didn't see me."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"I told Mama."
Lorenzo looked at Rosa.
Rosa's eyes were wet.
"I didn't — I didn't know what it meant.
I thought maybe it was a medical thing.
Something the doctors had asked her to do.
I didn't think—" Her voice broke.
"I should have asked.
I should have said something.
I'm so sorry, Mr.
Rinaldi."
"You didn't know," Lorenzo said.
"I should have—"
"Rosa." His voice was quiet but firm.
"You didn't know.
And Mia came to me today.
That's what matters."
Mia was watching him.
"Will the pretty lady go away?" she asked.
"Yes," Lorenzo said.
"She will."
"Good." Mia looked back at her drawing.
"She wasn't kind.
Kind people don't talk about children like we can't hear."
Lorenzo looked at the drawing on the desk.
It was a man standing up.
Tall, straight, both feet on the ground.
May you like
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
