I flipped through the book. There were several dog-eared pages and more underlined passages: “The death of a parent, she wrote, ‘despite our preparation, indeed, despite our age, dislodges things deep in us, sets off reactions that surprise us and that may cut free memories and feelings that we had thought gone to ground long ago.’”
And then another: “Things happened in life that mothers could not prevent or fix.”
I hadn’t realized I was crying until one fat tear dripped onto the page.
Rose’s message was clear.
She knew Nico was dead.
33
“Dante?” I said, holding the phone up to my ear.
I had no idea what time it was in San Diego. I had waited until the first light of the sun had hit the ocean and dialed him. I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning.
“Gia?” he said. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said.
“Where are you? I can come wherever you are.”
A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t deserve this man’s friendship and loyalty. I never had.
“You’ve pulled me out of the darkness before,” he said.
It was true. I had gone to Baja, Mexico to save him from himself. That was a long time ago.
“I’m lost,” I said and rubbed one eye hard with my fist.
“Oh, Gia.” He knew I didn’t mean geographically.
“I can’t find my way.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then he cleared his throat.
“Have you thought about going home?”
I stared off into space thinking about that word: Home.
I didn’t know what it was anymore.
“Nico’s dead, Dante,” I said, a sob catching in my throat. “He’s dead. Nico’s dead.”
I swiped at my tears and runny nose. In the distance, I saw the surfers zipping up their wetsuits and heading for the water.
“I know, Gia.” His voice was soft and sorrowful.
“I can’t go home. Nobody’s there anymore,” I said, now openly weeping. “Nico is dead. Rose is—God knows where she is. I tried so hard to find her, but she doesn’t want to be found, Dante. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t need me.”
Dante sighed. “Gia, she’s striking out on her own. It’s her way of dealing with her grief. It’s her way of dealing with her losses. She’s like you. She lost so much so young.”
“I want to help her.”
“You can’t,” he said. “You can’t help her unless she wants your help. She will come to you.”
I hated that. But he was right.
He continued. “You do have a home. Your home is wherever the people who love you are. Wayne and I are here in San Diego and always have room for you. Eva would be thrilled to death if you went to see her in Italy. And there’s still a lot of people who love you in San Francisco.”
He was right. I dried my tears and sniffled.
“Thanks.”
“Call me later, okay?”
I didn’t answer.
“Gia? Call me and let me know what you decide.”
“I will.”
I hung up.
34
I paced the sand outside my hut as the sky grew lighter, filling the east and west skies with a pink orange glow lighting up the clouds.
I couldn’t go see Eva or Dante. The look in their eyes would break me. They’d try to hide it and be cheerful, but they would be full of sorrow and grief the same as me. They loved me and knew Nico, too. It would kill me.
There was a low sound that took me a few seconds to recognize: one of the surfers was blowing through the conch shell.
It was time for Matteo’s memorial ceremony.
I ran and put on the wetsuit Makeda had dropped off last night, picked up Rose’s surfboard, and headed for the beach.
When I got there, Makeda passed out flowers, beautiful blossoms in white, purple and red. The surfers stuck the ends of the stems in their mouth. I waited a second and then did the same. As soon as the flowers were distributed everyone headed to the water. That’s when I realized why we had the flowers in our mouths.
The others took off, ducking waves and paddling out past the break.
I was soon left behind, eating salt water as the waves crashed over me. After a few minutes, I got the hang of it and caught up to where the other surfers were resting, chest down on their boards.
Once I got there, the circle opened up by Makeda, who reached out to grab my hand. I looked to my left and was surprised to see Keiki there, extending her arm for me to hold her hand. Her eyes were bright with tears.
Then, one by one, each person shared a small memory of Matteo. When it was my turn, I said how I had immediately liked him when I saw him stick up for the older man collecting shells on the beach that one day. Keiki gave me a solemn nod when I was done.
After everyone had said something, Makeda lifted her flower. The others followed suit and then the flowers were tossed in the water in the middle of the circle. Then they started to splash the water and cheer and smile and laugh.
It was beautiful.
After the ceremony, when I had changed and returned Makeda’s wetsuit back to her hut, I wheeled my bike toward the road. I paused at the last hut and looked down at the beach.
Everyone was huddled around the bonfire, laughing and sharing stories about Matteo.
I watched them from afar as I dialed a number I hadn’t used in a very long time.
The voice that answered, a silky purr that glided over my soul like a soothing balm, made me smile and cry at the same time. I could almost see her:
Darling was like a queen—a powerful, strong, beautiful member of the royal family of humanity. She had a lioness mane of dark curls, golden cat eyes lined thickly with kohl like an Egyptian goddess and those ridiculously long black eyelashes.
And that woman gave the warmest, best hugs in the universe. When she gave you a squeeze, she made everything right in the world.
“Good Lordie, girl, I wondered when you were going to call me. This city misses you something else. We need someone like you to make sure the riffraff stay in check.”
I almost laughed at her words, but gave a loud sob instead.
“I’m so lost, Darling. I have nothing. Nico is dead. Rose is gone.” My voice was stuffy from crying. I knew she knew.
“Hush, honey child, you still got what you need. You got your heart. You’re breathing, your heart is beating, you have people who would die for you. Mmmhhhmm. Why don’t you come on home? I got just what you need. Plus, I need your help. My hips aren’t what they used to be and I’m working on a new project I need someone like you for.
“So, it’s settled, I need you to come home to San Francisco and help me. Got it? I’ll expect a call from you when you’ve landed.”
Then she hung up.
I stood there with my mouth wide open. The nerve. But then I burst into laughter.
Darling was a force of nature.
I wasn’t about to stand up to her.
I wiped away the last of my tears. I realized with a start that I was done crying. I was done.
I was going home and I was done crying.
I walked toward my bike and straddled it. I’d said my goodbyes down at the beach. Just to Makeda. She’d promised to get in touch if she heard from or saw Rose.
Now, as I gave one last glance to the surfers around the bonfire, Makeda must have sensed me because she turned around to look. I lifted my hand partway. She gave me a slight nod.
With the sun warming my face, I pointed the bike toward the road and gunned the motor, feeling the wind at my back.
As the miles passed, it felt like the grief that had been a dark shadow following me for so long, began to fall away. Each mile stripped more of the heaviness away from me until I felt something I barely recognized; light and free and hopeful. Then to my surprise, I felt something else: a strange excitement about the future. It had been a very long time since I’d looked forwar
d to the future. For so long, the future had been bleak—just a step closer to Nico’s inevitable passing. After that, I couldn’t even see a future. I was too focused on wrapping up the details of Nico’s death.
I’d left Barcelona with one goal: to find Rose and tell her about her father’s passing. I’d also hoped to see her face and look into her eyes and make sure she was okay.
None of that had happened.
But I felt at peace anyway.
I knew deep in my soul that Rose was out there somewhere, safe and competent and making her own way.
And I had to let her go.
I had to let her do it on her own.
The other realization I’d had during this visit to this tropical island paradise was that I’d been living for other people for too long. I’d gladly done so. I’d do it again in a hot minute. I would live for Nico forever if I could. I would live for Rose for eternity, if it were possible.
But the stone-cold truth was that neither needed me anymore.
Nico had stopped needing me long before he actually died.
Rose? I wasn’t sure when she had stopped needing me. Maybe it had been a long time ago and I just hadn’t wanted to admit it.
When I left Barcelona, I’d thought I was doing it for her.
But, in reality, I was doing it for me.
And from this moment on, I had to do it—live life—for me.
It was a terrifying thought.
I both dreaded it and welcomed it.
Whatever the future held, I welcomed it with open arms.
The one thing, maybe the only thing, I knew, was that life—full of heartbreak and beauty so fierce it took my breath away—was something that I needed to embrace each and every moment before it slipped away.
When I pulled into the marina, the sun had risen high above me, a massive orange ball of warmth and light.
Onboard the ferry, I parked my bike and lifted my face toward the sun, soaking in its healing rays.
I was going home. Whatever that meant.
There was only one thing left to do.
I took out my phone and dialed.
Before Ryder could speak, I said, “Ever been to San Francisco?”
His deep, low, laugh told me everything I needed—and wanted—to know.
The End
To Be Continued …
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About the Author
Kristi Belcamino is a USA Today bestseller, an Agatha, Anthony, Barry & Macavity finalist, and an Italian Mama who bakes a tasty biscotti.
Her books feature strong, kickass, independent women facing unspeakable evil in order to seek justice for those unable to do so themselves.
In her former life, as an award-winning crime reporter at newspapers in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca, attended barbecues at the morgue, and conversed with serial killers.
During her decade covering crime, Belcamino wrote and reported about many high-profile cases including the Laci Peterson murder and Chandra Levy disappearance. She has appeared on Inside Edition and local television shows. She now writes fiction and works part-time as a reporter covering the police beat for the St. Paul Pioneer Press.
Her work has appeared in such prominent publications as Salon, the Miami Herald, San Jose Mercury News, and Chicago Tribune.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
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Also by Kristi Belcamino
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Series
Vendetta (formerly City of the Dead)
Forgotten Island
Dark Night of the Soul
Black Widow
Day of the Dead
Border Line
Night Fall
Stone Cold
Cold as Death
Cold Blooded
Dark Shadows
* * *
Additional books in series:
Taste of Vengeance
Lone Raven
* * *
Vigilante Crime Series
Blood & Roses
Blood & Fire
* * *
Queen of Spades Thrillers
Queen of Spades
The One-Eyed Jack
The Suicide King
The Ace of Clubs
The Joker
The Wild Card
* * *
Standalone Novels
Coming For You
Sanctuary City
Tommy St. James Mysteries
* * *
Gabriella Giovanni Mystery Series
Blessed are the Dead
Blessed are the Meek
Blessed are Those Who Weep
Blessed are Those Who Mourn
Blessed are the Peacemakers
Blessed are the Merciful
* * *
Nonfiction
Letters from a Serial Killer
Dark Vengeance Page 13
