Page 1 of The Secrets We Keep

Chapter One

The wind whipped her hair around her face as the ferry churned from Italy’s mainland to the island of Sicily. She tucked it behind her ears to keep it out of her eyes but stopped herself short from pulling it into a ponytail. It hid the scar carved down the side of her neck.

People stared when they saw it, puckered and white. If they weren’t staring, they were asking questions. She wanted to avoid both. Being the center of anyone’s attention was something she tried to avoid.

A family joined her at the railing to watch the boat cut through the sea. A little boy who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight climbed onto the bottom rung, head tilted out over the water while his father gripped the back of his shirt.

He had a missing front tooth when he smiled, and instantly she thought of her nephew. Pietro was only six when he died. He’d just lost his first tooth and was teaching himself to whistle through the gap. He was convinced he could learn to whistle an entire song if he tried hard enough.

Then it wasn’t his smiling face she saw. It was his lifeless one, staring at nothing out of wide eyes, mouth open in a silent scream. She squeezed her eyes shut against the image, forcing it to the recesses of her mind.

Wading through her memories was like a sick game. The bad always came with the good, no matter how many times she practiced recalling only happy times, only smiling faces, only laughter. In the end, it was always overtaken by the way it had all ended. She was always left cold and alone with nothing but the horrible memories of that night.

She’d never be free from them.

The coast began to take shape, colorful houses backed by towering cliffs of green, and she gripped the bars of the ferry’s railing. It had been too long since she’d stepped foot on Sicilian soil. She missed it. The people, the food, the sounds, the smells. Her life just outside of Berlin had been fine—comfortable and quiet. But nothing would ever compare to home.

The ferry blew the horn to announce their arrival, and the little boy next to her squealed with joy, jumping down from his perch and scurrying back inside. The boat slowed to prepare to dock, and with one last look at the shore, she descended to the lower level and climbed behind the wheel of her car.

It was new, but not flashy. She needed something plain that wouldn’t draw attention, and the simple black sedan fit the bill. All she had left in the world was what she’d managed to cram into the trunk and the backseat. Before leaving Berlin, she’d sold all her furniture, given her cat to the neighbors who promised to send pictures, and packed up what was left.

It wasn’t much, but she hadn’t left the island with much, either. Only the clothes on her back and a healthy dose of terror and pain.

The ferry docked with a jolt, and eventually the cars in front of her pulled forward. Carefully navigating the narrow strip of land serving as Messina’s harbor, she wound her way inland, rolling the windows down to take advantage of the unusually warm temperature.

The sun heated her skin when she dangled her arm out the window, and she drove on impulse toward the restaurant she remembered from her childhood. Her mother was from Messina, and her family owned two popular restaurants boasting the island’s best cannoli.

When she was a girl, they’d drive up from Catania to see her grandparents, who would happily let her eat as many cannoli as she could stomach, no matter how much her mother protested. Then she’d run around with her cousins until it was dark and her mother dragged her home again.

When she pulled up to the curb outside the bigger of the two restaurants, her eyes brimmed with tears at the sight of it. She only had happy memories here. It wasn’t tainted. And it looked exactly how she remembered it.

Bright coral stucco with white shutters and a happy teal door. In the summer, the door would be left open for the breeze off the water, cooling the dining room and the sweltering kitchen beyond. In the winter, the bell over it jingled when you opened it to announce your arrival, and someone would always call out a greeting.

Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she debated getting out of the car. It would be easy to jog across the street and step inside to the rich scent of pasta sauce and basil and cannoli shells frying. They probably wouldn’t even recognize her. She’d changed so much in the last three years. She was wholly different now—inside and out.

While she was debating with herself, the front door opened and a woman stepped out. Her throat constricted, and it was impossible to draw a full breath. Zia Aria. The woman’s black hair was bundled on top of her head and secured with what was probably a pencil. She brought a cigarette to her lips and lit it, cupping her hand around the lighter and then blowing out a puff of smoke once the cigarette caught.

Zia Aria had been a smoker for as long as she could remember, with a wonderfully deep, raspy voice because of it. Aria leaned back against the side of the building, settling one arm over her stomach and propping her elbow on her wrist.

Someone walked by, and Aria smiled at them. The sight of it was like a knife to the gut, sharp and painful. Zia Aria looked so much like her mother it was excruciating. She couldn’t do it.

Pulling away from the restaurant, she shook her head. It wasn’t worth the risk. She didn’t want anyone to know she was back. It’s not like she was planning to stay, and even if they didn’t recognize her, she didn’t trust herself not to say anything.

The business she was here to handle so she could make things right was too important to jeopardize. She’d come all this way, spent all this time preparing. She couldn’t ruin it in her first fifteen minutes.

Angling the car south, she followed the route she knew by heart to Catania, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel with every mile. She had to come back to do this part. It was her only option.

She drove aimlessly through the city, crisscrossing familiar streets, turning, circling, looping back on herself. Her breaths came faster, but she couldn’t release the pressure in her chest quickly enough. It was suffocating, being this close to home and yet so far away.

All she had to do was turn right, and she’d be there. In front of her childhood home. Her knuckles were white on the wheel as she sat at the stop sign, but she couldn’t force herself to turn. It was too soon, too dangerous. She didn’t want to be seen in that old neighborhood anyway.

Someone honked behind her, leaning out their window to swear, and she jolted, pulling through the intersection and driving instead toward the apartment she’d found online. It was more expensive than the place she’d rented in Berlin, but it was within walking distance of her new job, and she’d saved up enough money to afford all the deposits.

Plus it was secure. And she needed the security right now. Needed to know at least something stood between her and the outside. Parking in a guest spot, she smiled at the woman who held the door open for her into the lobby and waited for the receptionist to acknowledge her presence.

“Can I help you?” the man finally asked.

“I emailed yesterday asking to see some apartments. Anna Marino.”

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