The Killing #3
I hadn’t realized we’d already reached the estate. That bothers me. I was supposed to track the route. Turns. Time. Distance. Surface. Guard points.
Instead, I was looking at him.
Stupid. Grief makes people inefficient.
I correct myself immediately. Gate: double iron. Two guards visible. Camera above the left pillar. The drive curves through cypress trees. Gravel. Long approach. The house set back far enough that arrival can be assessed before it becomes arrival.
Containment, then. Expensive containment.
The estate rises ahead, pale stone under rain-dark sky, lit from within like it has never once doubted its own survival.
I count windows, stopping at twenty-three because the car moves and angles change.
Fine, I’ll do it later.
When the car stops, Luca opens my door.
Inside, the house is warm. That feels obscene. A woman introduced to me as Teresa Conti appears in the entrance hall as though summoned. Dark dress. Silver hair pinned with ruthless competence. Eyes that miss nothing and reveal less.
“Miss Brennan,” she says. “A room has been prepared.”
Of course it has. “How efficient,” I remark.
“Efficiency is valued here.”
“I gathered.”
Alessandro removes his gloves. “Teresa will see that you have what you need.”
“And if what I need is information?”
He looks at me. “Then ask carefully.”
I hold his gaze. There are several things I could say. Did your son kill my father? Why are you hiding him? What did my father know before he signed me away?
But questions are coins. Spend them too early, and all you purchase is warning.
So I say, “I’ll need black.”
Teresa nods once.
“For mourning.” I smile without meaning to. “For appearances.”
This time, something like approval flickers across her face, disappearing so quickly I may have invented it.
Alessandro notices. “Rest.”
Men love telling women to rest when what they mean is stop thinking where I can see you.
“I’ll try,” I say.
I turn toward the stairs before my face can betray anything inconvenient. Teresa leads me upward. Her pace adjusts to mine without seeming to. The house stretches around us, all polished wood, old stone, narrow corridors opening into wider ones at angles designed by someone who didn’t trust guests.
Smart. And annoying.
I count as we walk. Main staircase. Two landings. One hall branching east, another west. Four doors before the turn. Portraits watching. Staff entrance concealed behind paneling near a linen alcove. Guard at the far end, pretending to be furniture.
The room prepared for me is large. Large rooms make cages feel less honest. There are flowers on the table. White. Tasteful. Condolence dressed as décor. I hate them immediately.
Teresa sets a folded black dress on the bed. “There’s water. Tea, if you want it. Food can be sent.”
“Does anyone ever want food after a murder?” I ask.
She looks at me. “Usually not, but they need it, anyway.”
I consider her. “Did you know my father?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t have to soften your voice.”
“I wasn’t.”
Good.
She moves toward the door.
“Mrs. Conti.”
She stops. “Teresa,” she corrects.
“Teresa. Who cleaned the street?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who will?”
“Someone will.”
“And will that someone tell me?”
“No.”
Honest again. This house may end up killing me, but at least its staff are efficient about disappointment.
I nod. “Thank you.”
She leaves. The door closes.
I wait. Count to ten. Then twenty.
Then I move. To the windows first. Three.
All tall. All latched. Outer drop to a terrace roof below—possible if desperate and willing to break an ankle.
Door to the hall behind me. Door to the adjoining sitting room.
Small service door near the wardrobe, locked from the other side.
An old mechanism, probably leading to a staff passage.
Six exits if one is optimistic. Four if one is honest.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are still clean. That’s suddenly intolerable. My father’s blood isn’t on me.
I should’ve touched him. I should’ve put my hand on his chest, his cheek, something. I should’ve marked myself with the fact of him, carried proof into this house where everyone will try to turn him into circumstance.
Instead, I have nothing. No blood. No report. No body.
Only a memory of Dante arriving early and Alessandro not denying what mattered.
I stand and remove the flowers from the table, one by one. White lilies. White roses. White something expensive and fragile that looks bred to die indoors.
I place them in the fireplace. Then I take the notepad from the writing desk. Heavy paper. Cream. Vitale crest at the top.
I tear off the crest. Then I write:
Dante arrived before scheduled meeting.
Side entrance.
No umbrella.
Unknown man behind him.
Argument before impact.
Official version excludes Dante.
Alessandro knows.
Dante being “dealt with.”
Police defer to Vitale authority.
Scene controlled before my arrival.
Body covered before family viewing.
Luca allowed access.
Protection offered = containment.
I pause. The pen hovers.
Then I add one more line:
Don’t ask for justice.