Just silence, though silence has never meant privacy here.
Still, I unfold the receipt.
A gas station outside the city. Date-stamped the night my father died. Time: 21:14. Vehicle registration: partially printed, partially written by hand.
The registration matches one I saw two weeks ago in a maintenance log I should not have been able to access. A dark Alfa used by Dante before his exile. Officially, he was across the city at 21:14. Officially, he did not arrive near my father until after the accident. Officially, the timeline is clean.
“Officially” is a very delicate word for a lie wearing gloves.
My pulse climbs. I press my thumb against the edge of the receipt hard enough to hurt. Pain helps. It makes the rest of the body less dramatic.
A receipt proves location. Not guilt. Location matters. Location can become pressure. Pressure can become leverage. Leverage can become justice if applied to the right throat.
I fold the receipt exactly as I found it, then unfold it again and memorize every line. Station name. Date. Time. Register number. Pump number. Amount. Payment method. Partial signature.
D.An arrogant, careless, stupidD.
I don’t take the original. That would be emotional. I take a rubbing. There are ways to copy without removing. My father taught me that when I was fourteen and bored during a meeting I was not supposed to understand. Thin paper. Soft graphite. Enough pressure to pull the impression without leaving a performance behind.
I place one palm briefly beneath my ribs, not low enough to be sentimental. There is nothing to feel yet, at least physically. Five or six weeks. Small enough to be invisible. Large enough to rearrange every calculation in the house.
Twins.
I’ve not spoken the word since the doctor said it. Words make things heavier.
I close the ledger and return it to its shelf.
The corridor beyond the library is empty. That’s new. Usually, at this hour, a guard stands near the arch leading to the central hall. Not always the same man. Never obviously attentive, either. But always present.
Today, no one.
Interesting.
I walk slowly, because rushing is confession. My shoes whisper over the runner. The walls observe without expression. Italian saints stare down from gilt frames, as if divine judgment has excellent taste in oil paint.
At the first turn, Teresa appears with a tray. “Miss Brennan.”
“Teresa,” I reply.
“You missed lunch,” she says.
“I know. Devastating.”
“You were in the library.”
I smirk. “Yes. That’s where devastation often finds me.”
“You should eat.”
“I did.”
Her eyebrows make a brief objection.
“I considered eating,” I correct.
“Less useful.”
“More elegant.”
