Beatrice
The poor girl is trembling when I bring her into the foyer.
“Tesoro mio,” I say, touching her arm gently. “What is wrong?”
“I need Michael,” she says, looking around.
“He’s been called. He’s on his way now.”
She nods, rubbing her hands together, and I see the redness in her eyes. She’s been crying too much already. My heart tightens. I place my hand on her back and rub slow circles.
“Come,” I tell her. “We sit, yes? You need to sit, tesoro mio.”
She looks up at me, a little confused. “What does that mean?”
“Hmm?” I ask, already taking her hand and guiding her to the chair. She follows, like she doesn’t have the strength to argue.
“What you called me.”
“Tesoro mio?”
“Yes.”
I smile at her. “It is nothing. Just a little name. It means my darling.”
She gives me a small smile, and I kneel down in front of her, taking her hands in mine. She looks at me, her eyes already shining.
“My mom died,” she says. Her knee begins to bounce, and I feel her hands trembling in mine.
I knew her mother was not herself anymore. Katie told me that day in the kitchen, the way her memory was going, and how hard it had become.
“Oh, dolce cara,” I murmur.
She begins to cry.
“I just want Michael.”
The strong one, the stubborn one I’ve been watching these last weeks, she is gone. Now there is only a girl, heartbroken, sitting in front of me.
“Will he be here soon?”
“Yes. He is on his way.”
“Beatrice, a word please.”
Katie looks up.
“I’ll be right back, sì?” I say gently.
I take my handkerchief and wipe her face, then push her hair back, tucking it away. She nods. I rise and smooth my uniform before I go. Sal stands off to the side.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Amato is at least an hour out. It would probably be best if you took Miss Miller to another room.”
I nod. “I will take her to Mr. Amato’s room.”
“I’m not sure if that—“
I cut him off with a look.
“Sal,” I say, calm but firm, “is she not with Mr. Amato?”
“Yes, but he’s not here.”
“And you think he would be pleased, hmm, if she is not allowed in his room? Especially now?”
He pauses, then steps back.
“Of course,” he says.
“Miss Katie,” I say gently, taking her hand. “Come. We go upstairs.”
She follows me upstairs and into his room. She knows this space. She moves through it, going straight to the bed and climbing in.
“Here, here,” I murmur. “Let me get you something to sleep in.”
I go to the closet, to the space Michael has made for her, the one I have been helping him fill. I open a drawer and take out a pajama set.
When I return, she hasn’t moved. I sit on the edge of the bed.
“Cara,” I say, my voice low, “we change, okay? You will sleep better.”
She sits up slowly, leaning against the headboard. Her eyes fall to the clothes in my hands.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, already crying again. “Can I wear one of Michael’s shirts?”
“Ma certo,” I say immediately. “Of course. Anything you want.”
I go to Michael’s dresser and open his drawer, taking out one of his shirts. Katie lets me help her, lifting her shirt as I pull it away and slip Michael’s over her. She steps out of her pants and pulls on the soft silk ones I hand her. Then she covers my hand with hers.
“Thank you, Beatrice.”
“Yes, tesoro mio,” I tell her gently.
She lies back down, and I pull the covers up around her. I lean down and kiss her temple.
“He will be here soon,” I murmur. “You try to sleep.”
She swallows and closes her eyes. I go to the door and turn the light off before closing it behind me. Sal is standing on the other side.
“Do you need something?”
“Just keeping an eye out,” he responds.
“The girl doesn’t need someone watching her like a prisoner. Leave.”
His jaw tightens.
“Now.”
He walks on down the stairs, and I follow behind him. It is late, past eleven, and the house has settled into silence. Everything is done. Everyone has gone to bed. I sit in the foyer and wait for him. Sal stands by the door.
Forty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across the front. Sal is already opening the door when I stand. Michael steps out of the SUV without waiting for anyone. He moves quickly. When he sees me, his face softens just a little.
“Beatrice,” he says, taking off his jacket. “Where is she?”
“In your room,” I say, taking it from him.
He is already heading for the stairs.
“Michael.”
He stops and turns. As many times as he asks me to call him that, I do not often do it. I gesture to his holster. He looks down, removes it, and hands it to me. Then he leans in and kisses the side of my head.