Upstairs in her room Valentina sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall.
She had not cried.
She was not going to cry.
She was going to sit here and feel what she felt and then she was going to decide what to do with it.
Sofia.
Her Sofia.
Who had grabbed her hand at seven years old and held on.
Who had been her person for Sixteen years.
Who had come home from London after eight years of being away and somehow still exactly herself and Valentina had been so happy — so genuinely, completely happy — to have her sister back.
And the whole time.
The whole time.
She pressed her fingers against her mouth.
She thought about Luca’s face when Sofia left the dinner table.
She thought about things she had seen and filed and told herself she was imagining.
She thought about the bo
