13

MILA

I DIDN’T SEE RONAN FOR two days. I spent my time thinking about him, being the worst private investigator to exist, and deleting my papa’s and Ivan’s voicemails.

Food—thoughtfully, vegan—was delivered like clockwork by the same teenage boy with poor customer service skills. This was a relief because, one, it fixed the issue of my limited funds, and two, it let me know Ronan hadn’t forgotten about me after that very intense and confusing kiss.

I went to the opera house twice during busier hours, but each time I questioned someone about my mother, they stared speechlessly at me, made the sign of the cross on their chest, or simply turned and walked away. It was frustrating, to say the least, but also . . . disconcerting.

My only relief was, I didn’t see the man with tattoos on his hands again, and I was much more vigilant while out and about.

I shut the door, having just returned from sightseeing. One could say the priority to find information about my mother had become jumbled wi