I count windows, stopping at twenty-three because the car moves and angles change.
Fine, I’ll do it later.
When the car stops, Luca opens my door.
Inside, the house is warm. That feels obscene. A woman introduced to me as Teresa Conti appears in the entrance hall as though summoned. Dark dress. Silver hair pinned with ruthless competence. Eyes that miss nothing and reveal less.
“Miss Brennan,” she says. “A room has been prepared.”
Of course it has. “How efficient,” I remark.
“Efficiency is valued here.”
“I gathered.”
Alessandro removes his gloves. “Teresa will see that you have what you need.”
“And if what I need is information?”
He looks at me. “Then ask carefully.”
I hold his gaze. There are several things I could say.Did your son kill my father? Why are you hiding him? What did my father know before he signed me away?
But questions are coins. Spend them too early, and all you purchase is warning.
So I say, “I’ll need black.”
Teresa nods once.
“For mourning.” I smile without meaning to. “For appearances.”
This time, something like approval flickers across her face, disappearing so quickly I may have invented it.
Alessandro notices. “Rest.”
Men love telling women to rest when what they mean isstop thinking where I can see you.
“I’ll try,” I say.
I turn toward the stairs before my face can betray anything inconvenient. Teresa leads me upward. Her pace adjusts to mine without seeming to. The house stretches around us, all polishedwood, old stone, narrow corridors opening into wider ones at angles designed by someone who didn’t trust guests.
Smart. And annoying.
I count as we walk. Main staircase. Two landings. One hall branching east, another west. Four doors before the turn. Portraits watching. Staff entrance concealed behind paneling near a linen alcove. Guard at the far end, pretending to be furniture.
The room prepared for me is large. Large rooms make cages feel less honest. There are flowers on the table. White. Tasteful. Condolence dressed as décor. I hate them immediately.
Teresa sets a folded black dress on the bed. “There’s water. Tea, if you want it. Food can be sent.”
“Does anyone ever want food after a murder?” I ask.
She looks at me. “Usually not, but they need it, anyway.”
I consider her. “Did you know my father?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t have to soften your voice.”
