“I don’t know. Give it back, I guess, if they contact me.”
The memory of Nicholas Russo’s cold, assessing eyes flashed through my mind. Something told me I would be hearing from them again, whether I wanted to or not.
Maggie patted my shoulder.
“You should go home and get dry. You’re shivering.”
I nodded, gathering my things.
As I stepped back out into the rain, I realized my umbrella was still in the booth. I went back to retrieve it, and that was when I noticed Marco had left his dinosaur backpack behind.
“Damn,” I muttered, picking it up.
It was surprisingly heavy for a child’s bag.
Maggie offered to call them.
“No,” I said quickly, remembering Nicholas’s warning not to call anyone else. “I have the uncle’s number. I’ll contact them.”
I zipped up my jacket, clutching both the backpack and my umbrella, and stepped back into the rain.
The entire 6-block walk home, I could not shake the feeling of being watched. Twice, I turned around, certain I would find someone following me, but the rainy street behind me was empty each time.
By the time I reached my 3rd-floor walk-up, I was drenched and exhausted. I locked the door behind me, sliding the chain into place before collapsing onto my worn sofa.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the new contact Nicholas Russo had added.
Dante Russo.
A phone number.
The name tugged at my memory again, stronger this time.
Where had I heard it before?
I set Marco’s backpack on the coffee table and unzipped it, looking for any identification that might help me return it. Inside were a few schoolbooks, a water bottle, a small toy car, and a folded piece of paper.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the paper.
It was a child’s drawing of 3 figures: a small boy holding hands with a tall man in a dark suit and a woman with yellow hair and a big smile. Across the top, in wobbly first-grade handwriting, were the words My Family.
I stared at the drawing, a lump forming in my throat.
The woman looked nothing like me. I had brown hair, not blond. But something about the hopeful imagination of a child who had lost his mother made my heart ache.
As I refolded the drawing and tucked it back into the backpack, my phone buzzed with a text message from the number Nicholas had entered.
Ms. Morgan, I understand you have my son’s backpack. A car will come for you tomorrow at 7:00 p.m.
It was signed Dante Russo.
It was not a request.
