"You silly girl. Whether you stay or not, you'll always be our precious Olive."
He could tell I wasn't in the best place, but he didn't ask me to explain. He just drove, respecting my silence. The streets of the old neighborhood passed by the window, dark and quiet, the waterfront restaurants shuttered for the night, the fishing boats rocking gently in the harbor. This was Marchetti territory, but it was also just home. My home. The place where Olivia Ferrante existed before the Sloane name had ever touched her.
When we got home, I showered and ate a simple dinner my parents had prepared. Pasta with sauce from a jar and bread that my mother had baked that morning, the kind of meal that costs nothing and means everything.
By ten, I was lying in bed, staring at my phone. The new SIM card my father had quietly produced from a kitchen drawer, no questions asked. I opened my music app, hoping to find something relaxing to help me sleep. That's when I noticed several unread private messages.