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“Can I come in?” he asks. He’s tentative. It’s like he can read my thoughts. Piero dropped a bombshell, and I want answers. I nod as Gianni steps into the room.
“How are you doing?” he asks, pulling up the chair that Klein vacated.
“I’ll be honest. I’ve had better days.” I force a smile. Gianni tries to reciprocate, but whatever is troubling him seems to win.
“Look, Chloe, I—” he begins, but I put my hand out to stop him.
“I don’t want to hear you apologize. I don’t want to hear you’re sorry, that you never meant for any of this because I know that already. There’s only one thing I need to know.” Gianni stares at me. “I need to know what happened in the car with your wife.”
He presses his hands together as if he’s in silent prayer. His eyes are on the floor as if the answer to my question is laid at his feet.
“What did Piero tell you?” He’s stalling, but I answer him regardless.
“He said you killed her.” A trolley squeaks past somewhere in the corridor, and I hear papers rustle. Gianni hears nothing but my question. I wait. It’s as if I’m suspended upon the edge of the bed, as if I may topple off at any moment.
“You said you loved me,” Gianni says, smoothing the back of his hands.
“I love you, but…” I don’t finish because I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to say.
“But you can’t be with a murderer.”
“That isn’t what I was going to say,” I add, but how far from the truth is he?
“But it matters, Chloe. It will change things.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But it will.”
“Are you saying Piero was telling the truth?”
His eyes are full of something, but it isn’t guilt. It’s the sadness I saw the first time I met him. I know him. I know what he is and what he is not, and I refuse to believe what’s staring me in the face.
“Piero wasn’t there. Why did he say that you killed her? I don’t understand.” The tears have arrived, rolling carefree down my face. I don’t want them here, but I can’t stop them. “Gianni, tell me what happened in that car.”
Gianni is crushed. And then he tells me.
Gianni
Then
We’ve been to a party.
I am drunk.
Juliette is driving.
Things have been bad between us for longer than I care to admit.
We left the party early. Juliette said she was tired and didn’t want to spend the whole night watching me get even drunker. I was drinking to blot out the obvious. I’ve known our relationship is at breaking point for a long time, but I’m not prepared for the reality of it.
“Look at the fucking state of you,” Juliette barks as she marches around the car to the driver’s side.
“I’ve only had a few,” I murmur. I wish I’d had a few more. I don’t feel numb enough to deal with one of Juliette’s explosive mood swings.
“Rubbish. You were pissed before we even arrived.” Juliette sits in the driver’s seat and takes off her heels, swapping them for flat shoes. I climb in next to her, the car feeling small on this side. I hate being a passenger.
“It’s a fucking party, Juliette. People are supposed to drink and have a good time, although you wouldn’t know what that is. You’ve been in a bad mood for weeks. What the fuck is wrong with you?” She doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns the engine over and checks over her shoulder before pulling away from the curb.
