Pete looked surprised. “No, that’s interesting though.” His pensive expression returned. “Actually, we talked about those umbrella girls,” he said, his eyes sharp in the darkened room.
Cassidy’s gut lurched.
“He says they’re lured from Africa with the promise to get jobs like hairdressers and nannies, but are really forced into working as slaves.”
“Ugh,” Cassidy said, grimacing.
“I know,” Pete replied, his face somber.
“These guys keep the girls’ passports and make them work off the cost of their travel. But they make the price so high that they can never pay it back.” Pete shook his head.
“That’s illegal!” Cassidy said, kicking off her shoes. “Why doesn’t someone do something about it? I mean, they were right there on the side of the road. What about the police?”
“Pretty sure the police are in on it,” Pete replied.
“Really?”
“They have to be.” He turned to face her. “Did you know that sex trafficking brings in more money than drugs?” He sighed. “Max said there are girls like that all over those back roads. They move some of the girls north into mainland Italy.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Cassidy asked.
“Not sure. Max pretty much shut me down after I asked that.”
“He lives here, so he probably didn’t want to stick his neck out.” She cuddled up closer to him. “He knows you’re a writer.”
Pete exhaled a tight breath. “What a scam, though. These people promise the girls a better life, and they end up here on the streets.”
“Are you going to write about it?” she asked, stroking his arm.
Pete shook his head. “I can’t right now. Not with the immigration series deadline staring me in the face. I haven’t even started writing, and the first piece is due Thursday.” He sighed a deep breath. “Besides, the only contact I have here is Max, and I think after tonight he’s tapped out, so I’d be starting from scratch.”
“You’ve done that before though.”
“Yeah, maybe someday I can get back to it.” He caressed the back of Cassidy’s hand, his mind elsewhere.
Cassidy stroked the side of his serious-looking face. Their eyes met and he leaned in to kiss her. “We should head to bed,” she said.
A slow smile crept over his face, and he kissed her again, slower this time. “Seems a shame to waste this couch,” he said.
Cassidy’s jaw dropped. “What?”
But Pete was already burrowing under her sweater to kiss her abdomen.
Cassidy woke in darkness in her usual way: first, the dream she was experiencing faded, which always confused her because the dream hadn’t actually ended, so she came to feeling disoriented. The thin mattress felt strange until she remembered that it wasn’t her bed at Casa de Rocas. As the facts came into focus, she reached for the warmth of Pete’s body. But the place next to her was vacant. Cassidy strained her ears. Was he in the bathroom? Or had he woken up inspired and was pecking away at his laptop in the other room? But the apartment felt quiet. She looked at her watch: 2:11.
Worried now, she rose from the bed and wrapped herself in a blanket. The bathroom was empty. She peeked into the tiny kitchen, expecting to see the glow of Pete’s laptop, but it was dark. She lowered into one of the kitchen chairs, wondering what to do. Why would Pete be out? No good could come from being on the streets of Catania at 2:00 a.m. She remembered his notebook and got up to search for it, but it wasn’t on the couch, the table, or in his backpack on the chair. Cassidy stood in the middle of the kitchen, unsettled. A fleet of goose bumps rose up on her skin, and she pulled the blanket tighter. Immediately, she searched for his other things—her mind in panic mode. Had he left suddenly? Her deepest fears rushed to the surface. He’s left you. You’re no good. But his suitcase, toiletries, and laptop sat undisturbed next to his side of the bed. She sighed in relief, but the reprieve was short lived.
Where had he gone?
When Cassidy heard the door creak open she leapt out of bed. Pete was mid-tip-toe across the kitchen when she entered. His eyes went wide.
“Where the hell were you?” she demanded. She was shaking, but whether or not from relief or anger she didn’t know.
Pete removed the notebook from his back jeans pocket and placed it on the kitchen table. She noticed that he had dressed in sneakers and a button-down shirt, his typical fieldwork outfit.
He sighed. “I just needed to get out for a bit.”
“At two in the morning?” She tried to check her hysterical tone with a deep breath.
“Sorry,” he said, then looked away. “I just kept thinking about those girls. I thought . . . ”
Cassidy pulled the blanket tighter around her.
“I thought I could find others. Maybe one of them would talk to me.”
Alarm bells started ringing in her head. “How is that safe? You know Catania has like the highest murder rate in Italy?”
He looked surprised. “I just walked to the waterfront. I didn’t see the harm. It wasn’t like I went down any back alleys or anything.”
His nonchalant tone frustrated her even further. “Why didn’t you leave me a note or something? I was worried.” Cassidy knew this was an understatement. She had lain there wondering what to do, wondering if Pete was okay, searching through her memories for a missed sign that something between them was wrong, and he was out trying to think up ways to tell her. The longer he stayed away, the bigger her fear became.
“I did,” he said, his eyes pleading with her. “Didn’t you see it?”
Cassidy looked around the room. “Obviously not.”
Pete hurried to the bedroom and returned holding a scrap of paper. “On your suitcase.”
Cassidy sighed. “I didn’t think to look there.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and took her in his arms.
His cotton shirt felt rough against her bare arms, but holding him melted away her unease. “I was so worried,” she said again, unable
