THE BOY WHO ASKED ME TO STAY

"Then she can stay until you're ready to leave," Dante said at last.

He turned to the guards. "Get the sitting room opened. Tell the orchestra to take a break."

Leo looked toward me. "No touching on the way."

"You've got it," I said.

We took the service corridor instead of crossing the crowd. Leo walked beside his father, carrying a folded blue blanket a guard retrieved from the coatroom. He didn't want anyone to hold his hand. Dante seemed to need a deliberate effort to keep his own hands at his sides.

Inside the sitting room, Leo curled into a wide chair. Dante knelt in front of him.

"You're safe. Everything is fine now."

Leo shook his head. "It's still in my ears."

"What is?"

"The music."

Dante glanced helplessly at me. I considered keeping quiet. Then I remembered the way he'd looked when Leo spoke up for me.

"Could you ask what might help?" I suggested. "Sometimes 'everything is fine' doesn't match how it feels to him."

Dante turned back. "Leo, what would make things easier?"

"Home," Leo said at once. "And my headphones."

"Then we go home. Right now."

Leo's shoulders loosened a little. Not all at once, and not because the evening had magically become pleasant. But his father had listened.

I stood. "I'll get back to work."

"Wait," Dante said. He stepped into the hallway with me and shut the door most of the way. "My security team will verify your identity. That is routine for anyone who comes close to Leo."

"You could have explained that instead of treating me like a suspect."

He studied me. "You're remarkably direct."

"I'm tired, and my shoes hurt. It makes diplomacy difficult."

To my surprise, one corner of his mouth moved.

His assistant offered me an envelope. I didn't take it.

"What's that?"

"Compensation for your assistance," Dante said.

"I don't want a reward."

"You must need something."

"I need my manager not to fire me for leaving the ballroom. And Leo needs you to believe him when he tells you a place is too much."

Dante looked at the envelope as if it had suddenly become useless. "I'll speak to your manager."

"Please don't threaten him."

"That was not my intention."

"Good. Because I need this job."

He gave a small nod. "Understood."

I went home that night with sore feet, a full paycheck, and a strange ache in my chest. Leo's tapping had brought Danny back so clearly that I could almost hear him complaining about the seams in his socks.

My brother had died in a car accident three years ago. It wasn't my fault. Everyone had told me that. It still hurt that I had missed his last phone call because I was working a double shift.

The next afternoon, my manager called me into his office. I expected a reprimand. Instead, he informed me that Mr. Moretti wished to speak with me privately, and that I was free to refuse.

I almost did.

But curiosity took me to a quiet hotel suite, where Dante sat on a sofa beside Leo. The boy had a large book about Jupiter on his knees.

"Hello, Sophie," Leo said. "Do you know how many moons Jupiter has?"

"Not the current number," I admitted. "Scientists keep discovering more."

His face brightened. "Exactly. I can tell you what the book says, but it might change."

"I'd love to hear it."

Leo launched into an enthusiastic explanation. Dante watched, astonished and a little shy, as if he were intruding on a conversation he had always wanted to join.

When Leo paused for water, Dante said, "He asked for you three times this morning."

"I'm glad he's feeling better."

"I wondered whether you would consider spending two hours with him in the afternoons for the next two weeks. A temporary arrangement. His existing support team would remain involved."

"You want to hire me?"

"I'd like to give him a chance to see someone he trusts. And I'd like to learn how you spoke to him last night."

I looked at Leo. He was tracing Saturn's rings in the book.

I knew what it cost to promise a child that you'd be there.

"I need to think about it," I said.

Leo closed his book. "If you come tomorrow, will you come the day after that, too?"

The question landed in the oldest, tenderest part of me.