Page 6 of Peasants and Kings
“My mother died last year,” I said quietly.
“Violetta died? Did she have a funeral?” When I nodded, she frowned. “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve gone with you.”
“I know.” I shot her a tiny smile. “But I—I didn’t think about it, honestly. I just kind of…went into a daze. I packed a small suitcase and drove to Kansas for the funeral.”
Her eyes were somber. “She was so young. What happened?”
I stared at my hands. The home manicure I’d given myself a few days ago was already chipped and my nails needed attention.
I lurched off the couch and began to pace across her wooden living room floor. My cheap shoulder bag rested on the end table and I reached for it and unzipped it. I felt around at the bottom of the ripped lining and dug out the letter. I hadn’t had the heart to burn it. The money had all but run out and the letter was the only thing I had left of my mother.
I showed the letter to Tiffany.
She frowned. “It’s in Italian.”
I nodded. “It explains everything, Tiff. My childhood, why we moved all the time, why she wouldn’t ever let me stay in one place too long. This explains it all.”
Her eyes were bright like glowing gemstones.
I enlightened her about the contents of the letter, including what my mother had said about our lineage.
Tiffany’s gaze widened. “You can’t be serious. You honestly don’t believe—”
“Yes, I believe her,” I said. “The letter alone might’ve given me pause, but the twenty grand that went with it made it real.”
“Twenty grand? Where did she get that kind of money?”
“I don’t know. The letter didn’t say. It was all she had left.”
I told her of the extreme measure Mama had taken to protect me.
Tiffany’s hand went to her mouth, almost as if to stop the sounds of horror from escaping her lips.
I fell silent, giving Tiffany a chance to process everything I’d said. I’d had a year to replay everything again and again, on repeat.
“Jesus, Sterling, I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine. Can you tell me the rest? I want to hear it all.”
Nodding resolutely, I continued. “After her funeral, I drove southeast. I wound up in a little town in Arkansas, and by some miracle, I was able to get a job under the table and rent a small apartment. But nothing happened. No scary men came looking for me, it was justboring. I started to think I was nuts for doing this, for living a life under the radar. I started to doubt everything. I didn’t want a life like my mother’s, always running. I knew why she did it, but I…anyway, I spent a lot of nights awake, wondering how it all could’ve turned out this way.”
I bowed my head, needing a moment to compose myself. It had been so long since I’d been able to confide in someone. I’d kept to myself this past year, not wanting to make connections, not wanting to get involved, knowing I’d inevitably have to leave at some point.
“There was a car accident a few days ago just outside the town I was living in. I wasn’t involved, but I saw it happen. One of the cars rolled into a ditch. The other smashed into a guardrail and caught fire. I didn’t think, Tiff. I just pulled over and before I knew what I was doing, I was running to the car on fire. It was a mother and her young boy who’d been hit. I couldn’t get the driver’s door open; it was smashed shut, but it didn’t matter. She was gone. The boy was screaming in the back seat and the fire...”
I shuddered at the memory.
“Oh my God, is the boy okay?” Her voice sounded very far away and pulled me from the memory of my recent past.
I nodded my head. “He’s fine. He has a few scratches from glass, but nothing major. The fire…I got smoke in my eyes and couldn’t see. The paramedics were washing my eyes out for me, and my contacts had to come out. But someone caught the whole thing on video and it’s gone viral. Our local news station picked the footage up, and I freaked out. My face is all over TV. All the footage is high definition, it’s everywhere. Local TV, online, all over.”
“Shit.” She shook her head. “You’ve worn contacts for as long as I’ve known you. I’ve never even seen you without them. But that’s not enough, is it? How could they possibly know you’re a Moretti? Your mother said in the letter that heterochromia isn’t that uncommon.”
“They published my legal name, Sterling Miller,” I said with a grimace. “I’ve been giving people fake names for a year, and I lied to the paramedics, but then the police showed up and started to document witness accounts and asked for my ID. I thought about getting a fake ID when I went on the run, but I didn’t know the right people to ask, and I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself by getting involved with criminals, you know? And fake IDs are not foolproof. You can tell a fake a mile away.” I let out an exhale and shook my head. “I might’ve been able to stay on the run, but Sister Agatha knew my legal nameandmy trait, both of which are now public. And now my face is all over the media. The Foscari have every piece of the puzzle they need to identify me.”
“Here, take another drink.”
I threaded my hands through my hair. “I’m sorry that I brought this to your door. But I—I had nowhere else to go.”
“No. You were right to come to me. I’m glad you did,” she said. “You should’ve come to me a year ago. You shouldn’t have had to do this alone. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”
