Milan felt different when she returned.
Or perhaps she was different. She hadn't decided yet.
The train from Rome pulled into Centrale at half past two in the afternoon and she stood on the platform with her bag over her shoulder and the untraceable phone in her jacket pocket and the name from that folder sitting inside her chest like something that had changed the weight of everything around it.
She had not told Dante who she suspected yet.
Not on the train. Not in the car to the station. Not in the quiet of the Rome hotel corridor when they had stood outside their separate doors the previous night with the photographs between them and everything else that had no name yet hovering in the space neither of them had found words for.
She needed to think first.
She needed Gianna first.
