Chapter 18
Naples, Italy. Present day.
The phone had rung and rung, and with each trill in her ear Little had almost hung up. Betty had volunteered to stand by her side, but she had asked to be alone. In the end, a girl had picked up, her voice young enough for Little to begin making frantic mental calculations of how old she sounded, and if she might be another daughter. And Little had opened her mouth, and no words had come out. The girl had asked repeatedly, Pronto?—her voice growing more and more annoyed, until finally, with a huff, she hung up. Little had waited fifteen minutes, seriously considered giving the whole thing up, and then had called back. Posso parlare con Delila, per favore? May I please speak to Delila? She had almost asked to speak to her mother, but it felt wrong, e
