“I wasn’t.”
Good.
She moves toward the door.
“Mrs. Conti.”
She stops. “Teresa,” she corrects.
“Teresa. Who cleaned the street?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who will?”
“Someone will.”
“And will that someone tell me?”
“No.”
Honest again. This house may end up killing me, but at least its staff are efficient about disappointment.
I nod. “Thank you.”
She leaves. The door closes.
I wait. Count to ten. Then twenty.
Then I move. To the windows first. Three. All tall. All latched. Outer drop to a terrace roof below—possible if desperate and willing to break an ankle. Door to the hall behind me. Door to the adjoining sitting room. Small service door near the wardrobe, locked from the other side. An old mechanism, probably leading to a staff passage.
Six exits if one is optimistic. Four if one is honest.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are still clean. That’s suddenly intolerable. My father’s blood isn’t on me.
I should’ve touched him. I should’ve put my hand on his chest, his cheek, something. I should’ve marked myself with the fact of him, carried proof into this house where everyone will try to turn him into circumstance.
Instead, I have nothing. No blood. No report. No body.
Only a memory of Dante arriving early and Alessandro not denying what mattered.
I stand and remove the flowers from the table, one by one. White lilies. White roses. White something expensive and fragile that looks bred to die indoors.
I place them in the fireplace. Then I take the notepad from the writing desk. Heavy paper. Cream. Vitale crest at the top.
I tear off the crest. Then I write:
Dante arrived before scheduled meeting.
Side entrance.
