The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(48)

“Wait,” I say to him. “My cousin’s still in there.”

He shakes his head. “No, signorina. It is empty.”

My mind reels. What am I supposed to do now? What’s the protocol for girls’ night out? What happens when a friend hooks up with someone? Will she come back here for me? Do I wait? Or are we on our own now? Why didn’t I ask her earlier? And why the hell didn’t we borrow Poppy’s phone?

I wait another twenty minutes. Campo Santa Margherita is nearly empty now, and I don’t have a clue which direction we came from. Even after three days, Venice is nothing but a labyrinth of canals to me. Where are my maps when I need them? I pull up the app on my phone, but without my glasses, it’s useless.

I clutch my head and spin in a circle. Slowly, I move in the direction I think we came from. I enter a narrow brick-walled lane. The light from the campo fades. A chill comes over me. Nothing looks familiar. Is this the way we came?

Raised voices spill from darkened apartments. My skin prickles with fear. I need to think, but my head is still foggy. I trot to the end of the calle, never mind that my feet are screaming in agony. I come to an intersection, where the lane branches off in three directions. “Damn it!”

It’s dark, and I can’t make out the street names on the corner walls. My heart races. I start down one corridor but reconsider. I spin around and scurry in the opposite direction. I’m struggling to breathe and my head feels light. I need Matt. He would talk me off the ledge, help me think clearly. But that’s not fair. I can’t use him to clean up my messes, like a handy stain-stick, and then toss him aside when my life is tidy.

A young couple approaches. I rush toward them.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice shaking. “Scusatemi.”

The man raises his hand and they continue on, as if I’m a beggar trying to hustle them.

I travel down another narrow calle, over a bridge. Does this look familiar? I don’t know! Damn it!

A memory finds me. I’m in kindergarten. School got let out early because of a winter blizzard. Daria and I are walking home, each rubber-boot step sinking into the drifting snow. Even though she’s right beside me, I can barely see my sister through the blinding storm. Fear grips me. We’ll never find our way home. “Don’t lose me,” I call to her, the wind stinging my face.

My big sister takes my mittened hand in hers. She tells me she’ll never leave me. Suddenly, I’m safe.

I slip my fingers into the pocket of my purse, pausing to touch the Saint Christopher medallion before lifting my phone. It’s evening back home. I squint until the star icon comes into focus. I blindly tap the first contact saved under Favorites. She answers on the second ring.

“Emmie?”

My throat squeezes shut. “Dar,” I finally manage to croak.

“Are you home? Please say yes. Nonna is an absolute wreck.”

I close my eyes. At this moment, alone in this alley, I would give anything to be back in my safe little Emville. “I’m lost.”

“What’s going on? Where are you?” Her voice carries the same urgency it did when I called her on New Year’s Eve eleven years ago.

“I’m in Venice. Lucy and I got separated.”

She lets out a sigh. “You’re okay. You’ve got the hotel address, right? Call an Uber. Don’t try to find Lucy. Just get back to the hotel.”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t remind my sister there are no vehicles in Venice. She’d feel silly. “Thank you, Dar.”

“Is that it?”

I peer down the lonely narrow alley. “No. There’s one more thing.” I lean against a stucco building, as if to fortify myself. “What happened to us, Dar?”

Silence fills the air. I rub my aching throat. “Did I do something to hurt you? Something that caused you to hate me?”

“What are you talking about?”

She knows. I know she does.

I swallow hard and force the words from my lips. “I love you, Dar.”

It’s awkward, expressing the sentiment we haven’t spoken for years.

She waits a beat. “Yeah, well, you need to get home, like, presto. I’ve never seen Nonna so worked up.”

Drunken sadness grips me. In the distance, I hear footsteps. I steal a glance behind me. The silhouette of a man takes shape, forty feet away.

“Oh, God. I have to go.”

I slip my phone into my pocket. My heart speeds and I scurry onward. What was I thinking, stopping in this deserted alley?

The steps grow louder on the cobblestones. I quicken my pace. The footsteps quicken, too.

Ahead, another bridge appears. Where the hell am I?

My heels clomp against the concrete bridge. Fear claws the back of my neck and I break into a trot. And still, the footsteps grow nearer. My feet are on fire. I’m going to be kidnapped, or murdered, or sold into sex slavery. Is this my punishment for betraying Nonna?

The footsteps finally overtake mine. A half moan, half cry pushes past my throat, and I fear I’m going to pass out. A tall man looms at my side.

“Posso aiutarLa?” he asks.

I can’t breathe. My legs are shaking. I’m about to collapse.

“Can I help you?” he repeats, this time in English. His features are clouded in the dim streetlight.

I fight to keep from hyperventilating. “Leave me . . . alone. Please.”