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Someone should check on her. Really make sure she was okay. What if she’d stopped eating again? She was so fucking stubborn.
Fucking hell.
I grabbed my phone and brought up Vera’s contact details.
“Mr. Grayson, sir.” The surprise in her voice was clear.
“Hello, Vera. I need you to tell me how Miss Moretti is doing.”
“Uh, I think she’s okay, sir.”
“You think, or you know? Please give me some details.”
“Well, she’s a quiet little thing, isn’t she?”
I frowned, because one thing Stefania Moretti was not was a quiet little thing. “How is her mood? Does she seem upset to you?”
“Um, not in general. I mean, she’s quiet, as I said. Very polite. Doesn’t eat much, unless I give her a lot of encouragement. Which of course I do. But then this morning…”
I straightened in my chair. “Yes?”
Vera cleared her throat. “When I brought her a morning snack, I thought she’d been crying.”
“I see.”
“Yes, I asked if she was alright and she said sure, it was just the book she was reading.”
“That could be true.”
“Sure, but her eReader was on the dining table and she was on the recliner. She wasn’t reading, is what I’m saying.”
“I understand. Thank you, Vera.”
“You’re welcome, Sir. If there’s anything you need me to do, you just let me know.”
“I will.” I ended the call and leaned back in my chair, staring out the window.
Crying. Depressed. All on her own.
I flicked my computer on and shot a quick email to Farris, ccing Rhett and Wolfe:
I’ve read your report. I accept your advice regarding notifying the authorities. I’ll leave that in your capable hands. Any issues, contact Rhett or Wolfe, as I’ve been called away on urgent business.
Then I stood, pulled my suit jacket on and, grabbing my phone, ordered my jet.
CHAPTER 22
Stefania
Ireally fucking hated this. The beach was gray; the sky was gray; the water was gray. It was like everything had been sucked dry of all its color and vibrancy. And that was exactly how I felt. My bones were aching, my skin was clammy, and my mind was a fucking mess.
I was fucking sick of this recliner. Sick of being sick.
Way out on the edge of the horizon was a boat, or a yacht. I could see its sail from here, pale against the gray sky. It seemed so insignificant out there, like one big wave would drag it under. Hey, that’s exactly how I felt.
And just to say, Lord Huron’s‘The Night We Met,’is a fucking terrible song choice when you’re already feeling low. It was so mournful that it had a deep sense of melancholy welling up inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to cry.
I tried to convince myself that I was strong, that I could handle this, but it was a lie, and I knew it. I should reach out to someone. That would be the smart thing to do.