Mariano holds up the notebook. “You’ve more than made up for it, Piper. Thank you for this.”
When he tucks it inside his coat, I catch another glimpse of the gun holstered around his waist. Fear skitters up my spine, which is silly. He’s a detective. Of course he wears a gun. There’s something about Mariano Cassano, though—his age? His face?—that makes me forget this is his job.
With a spark of intimidation, I realize that suggests he’s excellent at what he does.
My notebook seems suddenly childish. “I hope it’s helpful. I just wanted to feel like I’d done something.”
“I know the feeling.” He clasps his hands behind his back as we turn onto State Street. “Yesterday, you told me that Lydia was angry about being sent to Minnesota. Was that related to her feelings for Matthew?”
“Yes. She seemed to think it would mess everything up if she had to spend a few months at the hospital there, and I thought it would be a good test of her feelings. But of course I know lots of details about her seizures and she doesn’t, so I suppose it’s easier for me to prioritize her getting healthy.” The tears strangle my final words, and a humorless laugh bubbles out of me as I press Mariano’s handkerchief to my eyes. “You were smart to let me hang on to this.”
But he’s not walking beside me anymore. I turn and find he’s stopped on the sidewalk. “What do you mean, she had seizures?”
His question causes an icy blast of disbelief to run through me. “Did they not tell you?” It seems impossible. I knew the LeVines guarded Lydia’s condition carefully, but . . . “Lydia has recurring seizures. A type of epilepsy, I think. Though they would never dare say that word.”
I half expect his face to relax, for him to laugh and say, “Oh, right, that. Of course they told me that.”
But he doesn’t. He only stares.
“You hadn’t been told.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I take a deep breath. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.” The words fall out before I can think better of them. “They’re very private about it due to Dr. LeVine’s profession. Even Lydia didn’t know. She thought they were just fainting spells. I only knew because I happened to witness two.”
From his pocket, Mariano pulls out my notebook. “Is all that in here? The seizures?”
“Everything is. Everything that seemed as if it might help.”
Mariano stares at the notebook a moment and then slides it back in his pocket. When he looks at me, his gaze feels heavy. “Thank you, Piper.” He resumes walking, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, his narrow shoulders hunched.
He’s quiet. The only sounds are the young green leaves rustling in the afternoon wind and the passing cars. Is the same question—why did the LeVines not tell the detectives about Lydia’s seizures?—pulsing in his head like it is mine?
“I assume you know the family who lives in this house.”
I glance at the Barrows’ tall, narrow brick home. “Yes, of course. The Barrow family lives here. Lydia watches their son sometimes.”
“Lydia told you she planned to visit them that evening, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know them well?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“Have you ever cared for their son?”
“Children and dogs terrify me. They have both.”
“It’s a funny thing.” Mariano adjusts his tie. “O’Malley and I visited them yesterday and this morning. Lydia never arrived, both Mr. and Mrs. Barrow say. But the young boy has been acting peculiar since that night. Or so I gather from something the mother said. We never actually saw the boy.”
Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, my arms prickle with goose bumps. “Peculiar how?”
“This morning, his mother said he’s been sullen. They didn’t want him knowing that Lydia was missing, didn’t want to frighten him. But she made a comment this morning that he must sense something has happened, because she hasn’t been able to get him to speak a word.”
Mariano turns to me, and his eyes seem assessing. Seem to ask, can I trust you? “Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps my suspicion is only because of something that happened in my family when my mother died.”
My heart squeezes. I’ve been there, my soul wants to say to his. I know the pain.
“She died in labor with my youngest brother. My second-youngest brother, Alessandro, was five at the time, same as the Barrows’ son. And after Mama’s funeral, we could barely get him to speak. Mostly, he just clung to my sister. He screamed in his sleep sometimes, but it was months before he would really talk. The doctor had seen it before, with children who witnessed something traumatic. It didn’t make sense to us at first, because we didn’t think Alessandro had seen anything.”