"Tell me about her," I say.
He does not ask who.
"Maria Isabella Moretti. Born in Naples. Came to New York when she was twenty. She met our father at a dance in Bensonhurst. She was the only person in his life who ever told him no and made it stick. She had four sons. She lost one of them at six hours old to a heart that she was told had not finished forming. She lit a candle every February 12 for the rest of her life."
He looks at the wall for a moment.
"She died when I was nine. Alessandro was thirteen. Luca was five. She passed the candle to Alessandro. Alessandro passedit to me when he was seventeen. I have been lighting it every February 12 since."
"For the brother who lived."
"For the brother who lived."
"You did not know it was me."
"No."
"How long have you known?"
"Since Saturday at 1:43 p.m. Alessandro called me. Told me there was a document. Told me what was on it. Told me there was a man on the security feed of a cabin who matched the date."
"You waited many hours."
"I waited thirty-six hours to read it with you in the room. Alessandro and I do not read the names of our brothers without our brothers in the room."
"Matteo."
It is the first time I have said his name.
He nods.
"Sean."
It is the first time he has said mine.
The room is quiet.I am still inside the page. I am going to be inside the page for a long time. I am also, for the first time in thirty-eight years, sitting across from a person who knows the answer to a question I did not know I had been asking.
The question was who else has my body.
The answer is him.
Nadia.
The IA complaint came from inside the family, which has just turned out to be mine. She filed it. She has known for two days. She has been moving the pieces from the inside, and I have just walked into the room she was moving them toward.
I do not know what to do with that yet.
The alarm goes off.
Five pulse klaxon. I do not recognize the pattern. Matteo does.
He is on his feet before the second pulse. Hand at his side, on the weapon, I have not seen but has been there the entire time. His finger goes to the earpiece I have not seen.
He listens.
His face does the thing my face does when bad news arrives over a comm. The micro-tightening at the eyes. The half-second of recalculation.
He looks at me.
