Page 27 of Banished and Pregnant by Her Sicilian Billionaire Husband

“You were talking out loud, and when I started to listen to you...”

Curzio comes in, sets the tray down very carefully on the windowsill beside the rabbit, then lowers himself onto the arm of the covered chair like a man whose knee has stopped being a joke.

“Could you say that last part again, signora? The one about the study...”

I bite my lip. It’s not like we’re accusing anyone of anything. Yet. We’re just...reviewing the facts. Right?

“Humor me, per favore.”

And so I go back to my notes and reread.

“He came out of the study. It was three in the morning. He’d been in the study.”

“The study has an extension.” Curzio’s voice has gone very quiet. “Same line as the hall. You can dial from either one.”

We look at each other, but neither of us seems able to say it.

Curzio rubs his hand down his face, and his hand isn’t steady. “I’ve always wondered. All these years, I tried to understand...” He looks at me like he’s just found out his own son is a mass murderer.

And in a way, I think that’s exactly what’s happening to him.

And to me.

“C-Curzio...”

I’m crying, and the old man also has tears in his eyes as he slowly gets to his feet.

Neither of us still wants to put it into words, and yet we know.

We both know what this means.

“Joey keeps a logbook,” he says gruffly. “He has done since he was a boy. Every run, every mile, in pencil, in his own hand. Thirty years of them, in boxes, in his garage.”

Is he...is he saying that’s our proof?

“If Vico was at a payphone at Hammond that November,” Curzio continues, “Joey’s book says what time they stopped and how long for.”

T-That’s what he’s saying, right?

Someone else’s guilt...is proof of my innocent.

He picks up his hat. “I’ll drive out there myself this morning—”

I’m shaking my head, and I just think...

I just think things are moving too, too fast.

I don’t know if it’s right to...to...pin the blame on someone else just to clear my name.

“W-We should think this through. We have to be sure—”

“That’s exactly why I need to do this, signora.” He puts the hat on. “Because if it’s true, then the past eight years...”

Oh no.

The older man is looking at me like he’s blaming himself all over again.

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper.