17. Lorenzo #3
“My father gave you opportunities. He trusted you with responsibilities. That doesn’t mean he promised you his son.
” I think about all the times she positioned herself at my side, all the ways she made herself indispensable, and I feel sick for not seeing it sooner.
“You had a place here. You destroyed it yourself.”
“Lorenzo, please.” She strains against the officer’s grip. “We were friends. We were family. You can’t just turn your back.”
“I’m done protecting you from the consequences of your choices.” I step back, putting more distance between us. “My wife was fighting to stay alive while you held her under. You don’t get to stand there and tell me you loved me while she’s recovering from what you did.”
“She’s not right for you.” Livia tries to step toward me again, and the officer stops her. “She never understood our world.”
“She understood enough to keep asking questions when everyone else wanted her to stop.” I think about Chiara in my study, laying out evidence I refused to examine.
About her face when I finally listened. “She was worth believing before she had a single piece of evidence, and I failed her. That’s my fault. What you did to her is yours.”
The officer on Livia’s right moves her toward the exit. She keeps her eyes on me, waiting for me to stop him, the way I once stopped anyone from questioning her.
I turn toward the stairwell. Behind me, I hear her call my name again, her voice breaking on the second syllable. I don’t look back. The officers’ footsteps resume, moving away, and I climb the stairs toward the ward where Chiara is sleeping.
***
Rosalia is in the chair beside her bed when I ease the door open. Chiara is asleep, her breathing slow and even, one hand resting on the blanket where I held it earlier. I watch her take another breath before I step inside.
“Signora woke up once while you were gone.” Rosalia moves her chair back carefully, keeping its legs from scraping the floor. “I told her you were giving your statement, signor.”
“What did she say?” I stop beside the bed, looking for any sign that she heard me come in.
“Nothing. She just nodded and went back to sleep.”
The nurse has agreed I can stay overnight. Rosalia gathers her bag from the spare chair.
“You should get some rest,” I tell her. “I’ll stay with her.”
“The signora asked me to bring clothes from her wardrobe at the Baglio. I’ll get them in the morning. Your mother has arranged cover for my shift, so I can drive her back to the cottage when she’s discharged.”
“Thank you.” I take the chair she has left and pull it close enough that Chiara can reach me if she wakes.
Rosalia pauses at the door. “Please call if she asks for me, Don Lorenzo.”
“I will.” I leave the water within Chiara’s reach and settle back beside her.
After Rosalia leaves, a nurse checks on Chiara and leaves again; footsteps pass in the corridor, and the room goes quiet.
Somewhere past midnight, she stirs. Her eyes open slowly, finding the ceiling first, then the dim room, then me.
“You’re still here.” She turns her head toward me and searches for my hand on the blanket.
“I said I would be.” I lean forward in my chair. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.” She shifts against the pillows, wincing slightly. “Everything hurts.”
“Let’s tell the nurse.” I put the call button within her reach, and she presses it.
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face in the low light from the corridor. I don’t know what she’s looking for. I don’t know if she finds it.
“Don’t go before I wake up.” Her fingers close around mine before I can reach to straighten the blanket.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I close my hand around hers. Her fingers are warmer now, and I keep still so she doesn’t have to grip so hard. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
The nurse comes to check on her, and I move aside until she has finished.
Later, Chiara closes her eyes and her breathing evens out again. I hold her hand and watch the monitor mark each steady beat of her heart, and I don’t let myself think about what happens next.
***
The doctor clears her to leave the following afternoon, with instructions and a follow-up appointment. The police have returned her bag after collecting the note. I carry it as we leave; when I offer my arm, she shakes her head and keeps walking.
Rosalia arrives with the car around to the hospital entrance, pulling up under the awning out of the cold winter wind. Chiara is wearing the clothes she asked her to bring: a soft sweater, loose trousers, shoes that don’t require bending to fasten.
The estate manager will arrange to return Chiara’s car to the cottage once the police have finished with it; she agreed to that before we left the ward. She walks slowly, but she walks on her own.
At the curb, she stops. I stop beside her, keeping distance between us.
“The divorce papers are still on my lawyer’s desk.” She stops me from handing her bag to Rosalia, keeping me beside her for a moment longer. “I haven’t signed them yet.”
“Why not?” I forget the bag in my hand. I’ve prepared myself to hear when she intends to sign, where she intends to live, how much distance she wants between us. I haven’t prepared for this.
Rosalia opens the passenger door. I hand her the bag, waiting for Chiara to say something else.
But she gets into the car without answering me.