Chapter 1

I’d been dead for two minutes when Matteo called.

My phone lay at the foot of the bed, his dinner invitation still on the screen. One hand hung outside the thin blanket, my fingers inches from the answer button. I reached for it and passed straight through the bed frame.

Apparently, I couldn’t even hang up on him anymore.

The ringing stopped, and voicemail picked up. His voice reached me as clearly as it had for eleven years: low, composed, as though we were deciding where to eat that weekend. [Elena, the payment’s been confirmed. Come home early tonight.]

He paused, then softened his voice. [Viola would like you to make a toast. Just welcome her into the family. Your mother’s had your room in the east wing prepared. She’s even kept your old pillows.]

I looked at the small shape on the bed. For six months, I’d barely been able to lie flat. I slept curled around my stomach, a rolled-up coat wedged behind my back, waiting for the cramps to ease. Now I could finally stretch out, but I’d never sleep in the bed they’d made for me.

Half an hour earlier, I’d braced my shoulder against the frame while the banking app loaded. My stomach clenched, sweat running down my back. I tried to drink, but even a mouthful of water wouldn’t stay down.

After the transfer, I’d meant to tell my landlord someone was taking me to hospice the next day. He wouldn’t need to leave the door unlocked for me. By then, I couldn’t make my fingers hit the right letters.

The last thing I heard was a neighbor turning on a tap to start dinner.

[I know you’re upset about the test,] Matteo continued. [We can discuss it when you’re here. Don’t put your mother in an awkward position with the guests. She’s hardly slept.]

He’d used that same reasonable tone five years earlier, when he drove me through freezing rain to a brick apartment building on the South Side. His dark-gray Maserati smelled of warm wool, his gloves resting beside the steering wheel. I was still wearing my satin birthday jumpsuit. I couldn’t feel my ankles.

He opened my door and held out an envelope containing my identification. “Rent’s covered through the end of the month. After that, it’s your responsibility.”

I caught his sleeve instead. “Do you believe it, too? That I’ve been taking what belongs to her?”

He looked down at me for a long time before gently removing my hand. “We can’t give her back those years. The least you can do is try to understand.”

He turned up my collar and told me to lock my door upstairs. I’d thought that was his last little kindness. Now I knew he’d always expected to come back for me; he just hadn’t said how long I’d have to wait.

My phone buzzed again. Mom had added me to the family chat after five years of leaving me out. Its name was one word: Home.

She sent a picture of my old room. A fire burned in the hearth, and white anemones stood beside the bed.

[No late night tonight. Come home, and I’ll make you something to eat.]

I didn’t like anemones. Viola did. I couldn’t tell Mom that even the sight of food reminded me how I’d struggled to swallow water in those last few days.

Matteo was finishing his message.

[The car will be there at seven thirty. After dinner, we’ll set a wedding date.]

I went to the bedside and tried to close my own eyes. My fingers passed through my face.

[I’m not sulking. I’m not making you wait. You’re just too late this time, Matteo.]