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“Silvio, you told the police that she left the house only once on the day of her murder. Where did she go?”
“To the bank.”
“I’m told that she left the house with you in the morning around ten and then again around five in the evening, and you didn’t return until a little before eight. She walked into the house, you drove the car around back to the garage, and then you left in your own vehicle.”
“She gave me the night off, sir.”
“Yes, but where was she for almost three fucking hours, Silvio?” I snarl.
His hands grip the arms of the chair, and his knuckles turn white with the force of holding on.
“Silvio,” I grumble in a low warning tone.
“Sir, she went to visit your friend, Mr. De Santis.”
“Luca?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you know why?”
“No sir. I remained in the car as I often did.”
Often did?A rush thunders through my head like a raging river barreling downstream.
“How often did these visits occur, Silvio?”
“Weekly, a couple of times a week.”
“What days?”
“They fluctuated, sir. Typically, when you were away on business or away for the weekend.”
“Where did she visit him?”
“At his home, sir.”
“When I went to America for the two weeks before she was murdered, did she visit him?”
He rolls his eyes away from the carpeted space and gradually meets my gaze as he nods slowly. “Yes sir.”
“How often?”
“She stayed for a week and a half, sir.”
The bastard told me he was going to London and Switzerland for two weeks. I’d invited him to accompany us on the trip, but he’d turned me down.
“The Thursday before I left for America, when I took a flight to Bari, did she visit him?”
“Yes sir.”
“How long?”
“Six hours, sir.”
“Did they ever leave the house?”
“No sir. He walked her to the car before we pulled off, but before that, they were in the house from the moment he opened the door for her until he walked her out to say goodbye.”
