Chapter 28
Sperlonga. Present day.
Some keys are smooth, well-made things, all soft, rubbed edges, whirring when they fit in their lock, turning with a satisfying click. Some are jagged and sharp, rough-hewn as though made by error, with little thought or care. They, too, open the doors they were created for. Little’s own particular key clicked into place then, sitting on the ground of the garage, her father’s papers fanned out on her lap, and she knew that this was what was left to her of a man whom she had loved, despite never knowing him enough. Through his stories, she was having a conversation with her father that they’d not had in real life. Or maybe she just hadn’t been listening to him then, she wasn’t sure.
Not nothing; everything. Not nowhere; everywhere. She was filled with a
