“I will remember.” I keep my voice low.
She reaches for a ring and slides off a small brass key. “We eat at six,” she adds, practical to the end. “If you’re up there, you eat. If you’re not, I will wrap a plate. Remember this. Pride isn’t a meal.”
Lila looks at her mother with the affection and exasperation of a woman who has lived inside that tone all her life. Maria pours coffee into a mug and pushes it toward me. Strong, honest. Twoalmond biscotti follow, pale and sugared, the scent just sweet enough to cut the bitterness. As I eat, I start to form a plan.
Lila offers to show me the apartment. We climb the stairs. The second step groans. The third shows a bright nail head where a heel found it last week. The landing window looks over the alley and the bend in the river—exactly what I need to see. The door sticks, then gives. The room inside is small and clean, more square than long. A bed sits under the window, a chair with a blanket folded over one arm, a low dresser with its stories and linens. I count outlets, corners, and the space between the door and the far wall.
“I don’t want you here,” Lilaadmits, ice in her voice. “You bring trouble too close.”
“I do not expect you to,” I answer. “I expect you to sleep.”
She huffs. It might be a laugh if the morning were kinder.
I set my bag on the chair and open only what I need. A coiled cord, red as a barn. A small receiver box that looks like a radio but is not. Two small hooks. Sound carries better through shelves than through plaster, so I install the box in the pantry off the hall. The cord runs to it along the baseboard and disappears behind the flour bins. The pull handle sits low, within reach if someone falls, and within reach if someone small must rip it. The other end sits in the apartment by the bed, the tone turned low and sharp. I test it twice. The sound is a sharp knife pulled long.
I show Lila the cord. “You pull here,” I say, giving it a short tug. My phone buzzes once in my pocket, clean, immediate. Maria hears it and nods. She is not afraid of bizarre noises when they are useful.
By eight, the front bell rings again. Wrenleigh comes to the case with mittened kids and cash and lists written on stickers and paper. The town chews, gossips, comforts itself. Lila moves, an economy of arms and attention that makes a dozen small tasks look like one motion. She will not look at me if she can help it. I have no need to be seen.
Marco comes down in a sweater that has a snowman with one eye too low. He goes behind the counter, where he belongs, and climbs the stool. He draws routes on a napkin for a truck that lives in his head and makes a round to the heating vent, to the case, to his coloring page, then back again, like a clock with a secret.
I keep my interactions short. “Ciao,campione,” I offer when he passes me near the sink.
He is busy. “Hi,” he returns without stopping. He will greet me properly when he decides the terms. He glances at my hands, collecting parts of me to build a conclusion later.
At ten, I walk the block with the mail in my hand so I look like a man with a reason. Hal at the hardware store raises two fingers without pausing his work. DiMarco, the barber, watches my reflection in his window and nods without looking up from the neck he’s trimming. A woman in a green coat asks if the bakery will do a dozen for the pageant raffle and answers herself with a smile. Around noon, the sheriff rolls by, one hand on the wheel, giving me the look men give when they have owned the board too long and do not like new pieces. I give half-answers, the kind neighbors give. No lies. No invitations.
Petro texts from the motel and spells badly. The watchers order pizza to the room at noon and leave the box outside the door. The SUV rolls once to the gas lot and back, a dog that circlesone spot and digs the same hole. Nico keeps his seat at the diner counter and learns the names of two widowers who split pie every day at two. Information comes like snow here. You can shovel it, or you can learn to feel when it drifts.
The day lengthens, slow and deliberate. In the narrow hall between the kitchen and the stairs, Lila brushes past me. Her shoulder finds my chest for half a heartbeat, and she jerks away like she has touched a live wire. Her hand goes to her hair, the reflex she has when she needs a second to hide a thought. She passes me a tray for the top shelf. I take it, careful not to brush her fingers. She nods, short, polite. The hallway hums with what we do not say. Maria is two steps away, watching without turning her head. Whatever Lila told her, it was enough, so we move past each other like gestures, pauses, retreats are our new language.
I should have trusted her then, in Milan. She had the strength for truth. I had the instinct for silence. One night was all we allowed ourselves, and that was enough to undo five years. In our world, sweetness never lasts without cost. Romance is a thing you pay for twice.
At six, Maria keeps her word. A plate waits on the landing, braised meat, greens with garlic, and a heel of bread. No note, no word, just a meal that smells like forgiveness and restraint. At seven, the town thins. The bell rings less. The mop meets tile. We clean in a silence that sits heavily like a wet cloud. Lila scrubs a dish more than it needs and dries it twice. She checks the front lock twice, the chain once. She goes upstairs, and I hear the floor creak above, the soft drag of her steps from room to room. She moves slowly, the way mothers do when they are putting a child to bed, curtain drawn, sash checked, lock turned.Then she stands by the window long enough for the boards to stop complaining.
When she comes back down, her hands are still on the banister. She looks at me from the bottom of the stairs, the light catching her eyes so dark they hold everything she will not say. She checks the front lock once more, the chain once, then turns away without a word.
Nico and Petro text once at nine. Two men in a sedan look too long at the church bulletin board. They do not write down anything. Petro says he left a bag of folding chairs by the hall door so he can return for them in the morning. He places them to force a man to move the wrong way if he wants to come in first.
In my room, I take the chair by the window. It is an old habit. The glass gives more than it takes. From here, I can see the alley, a tangle of pale light and shadow where even a cat cannot move unseen. The river bend catches what little glow the town gives off and throws it back dull and gray. Before a car shows its lights, I already know it is coming. The feed from the landing runs to the monitor by my chair. Another shows the door and the counter below. They are small eyes, but they keep me steady. The phone rests on my knee. I do not let the screen wake the room.
Lila moves below me long after closing. I hear the clink of bowls, the drag of a tray across steel, the soft thud of a box set down in the wrong place and then moved where it belongs. The restlessness of someone whose brain has not found a shelf for the day. At midnight, the sound settles. At one, she comes toward my room and stops at the door, her hands resting on the frame as if it holds her up. She does not speak. The light from the hall catches her eyes, dark and fixed on me, carrying more thanshe means to show, then she lets her hand fall and walks back down the hall.
“Sleep,” I murmur.
I do not plan to sleep. But the body has its own mind. It takes what it needs when the head drops for a moment. I set the alarm to whisper every hour. The bed stays untouched. I take the chair instead, shoes off but still laced, jacket on, one shoulder against the wall. Corners are friends, and sometimes they are not.
I wake between rings with the sense that the scene has moved a frame. Before dawn, the town is at its coldest. The room gives me the smallest sound first. A single tick, not from the heater, not from the cord, not from anything that should be here. Then a second. Glass below, a stutter dressed as a pebble that comes through a pane.
A breath climbs behind the sound, thin, merciless, and exact. It writes itself into the back of my throat, a warning older than reason. I know how fast a flame runs across sugar, paper, curtains, and love when I smell gasoline.
I am on my feet before the third sound. The cord box waits by the bed, but I do not reach for it. My hand finds the latch. The motion is clean, certain.
Light jumps on the glass, sudden and wild. It moves across the ceiling like a hand that belongs to fire. The hallway carries the taste of fire, gasoline and cold metal. My palm strikes the rail. The next step drops me into the heat.
Someone has brought the fire to my door.
17
