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Who will I hate for the rest of my life?
Who will I destroy for killing what I love?
Mom’s blood continues to turn the swimming pool red and her black dress spreads out around her. I look up.
Into his face.
At the man who murdered my mother.
7
Chiara
Abrush of mascara.
A dab of lipstick.
A lace veil drawn over my hair to cover my face. Light filters through the delicate net and embroidered blossoms. I can see out but the world can’t see in.
Dad’s waiting for me by the front door in a suit and tie. His gaze travels down over my dress, scrutinizing every fold of fabric, every button. Another man might tell his daughter,Your mother would be so proud, orYou look beautiful, but that’s not Dad and it never was. Besides, we’ve barely spoken a word to each other since that night.
Outside, an enormous rental car is idling in the street and the driver helps me inside. I tuck my dress around myself so none of the skirt touches my father. The drive to the church isn’t a long one, but we pass down main streets and people peer in and look at us. They all know what today is.
I feel safe inside my veil. The veil is my protection, and I dread the momenthe’llpull it back and I’ll have to look up into his hateful face.
Dad and I walk up the church steps together and into the cavernous, vaulted space. Pale sunshine streams through the stained-glass windows. Organ music fills the air. A huge gold cross dominates the altar.
Hundreds of people are in the pews, and they all turn to look at my slow progress down the aisle at Dad’s side.
I try not to look at what awaits me at the far end.
I try not to.
But my eyes are drawn there despite myself, to a shiny black casket heaped with white roses. My insides seize with grief and panic. This is actually happening. I’m burying my mother, my only true protector in this world.
The scent of chlorine and blood fills my nose, each as hateful as the other. Water forces its way down my throat and into my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’tbreathe—
“Chiara. People are staring.” Words spoken so low that only I can hear.
Dad pulls me toward the front pew. I grasp the back of the wooden bench and suck in a painful breath. It was better not to feel, it was better not to think about the horror of that night three weeks ago. My mother is here. My mother’s cold body that will never embrace me again.
Dad grasps my elbow and forces me to sit down. I see it again, the gash of her slit throat. The eruption of blood. Her slow fall into the swimming pool. An usher hands us both a booklet.In Loving Memory of Eleonora Mirabella Romano, with a picture of her smiling face.
I take the booklet in my black gloved hand and lay it in my lap. I twitch my black skirt away from Dad so that nothing of me is touching anything of him. To anyone looking on, they’ll see a father and daughter sank in mutual grief, side by side and drawing strength from each other in times of need. It’s only how things look that matter to him, not how they really are. He values that over his own wife’s life, and his daughter’s love and trust. The love between us shattered when he looked the homicide detective in the eyes and said,“I don’t know who did it. The coward escaped over the wall while I was trying to save my wife.”
After Mom’s body was zipped into a body bag and wheeled away, she lay in the morgue for three weeks while Coldlake police chased down any leads they could. There wasn’t much to go on. No DNA evidence on Mom. No witnesses. No murder weapon. The men disappeared into the night.
No one will pay for the crime of her murder. It’s all been smoothed away, like it never happened. Like she never existed.
I haven’t shed a tear since that night. Dad’s plan will go ahead despite Mom’s sacrifice. I’m promised, and her death was for nothing.
I gaze at the casket, the last remnant of her on this earth. She’s being buried in a new blue skirt suit I bought for her. As I sorted through her closet, every dress reminded me of Dad. One she wore to dinner with him. One she wore to a campaign rally. Her favorite that she wore to last year’s parade, where she sat alongside Dad and smiled and waved to the crowd. Every garment was tainted with the man who wouldn’t protect her when she most needed him.
She didn’t have to die.
This is all my fault.
The service begins, and after a sermon from the priest and a hymn, Dad gets up to give his eulogy. His face is somber and he seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders as he casts his eyes around the congregation.
