The Story of the Lost Child (The Neapolitan Novels, #4)

by Elena Ferrante

Shall I tell the girls that you won’t be here for Christmas Eve dinner?” “Yes, I probably won’t arrive in time.” He burst into laughter, he hung up. I traveled in a totally empty, frigid train. Not even the conductor came by. I felt as if I had lost everything and was heading toward nothingness, prisoner of a bleakness that accentuated my guilt. I arrived in Florence in the middle of the night, and couldn’t find a taxi. I carried my suitcase through the cold, on the deserted streets; even the Christmas bells had long since vanished into the night. I used my keys to enter. The apartment was dark and there was an anguished silence. I went through the rooms, no trace of the children, or of Adele. Tired, terrified, but also exasperated, I looked for at least a note that would tell me where they had gone. Nothing. The house was in perfect order.