Gianni texted:You free? Mac wants to meet up. He’s got some great ideas. You should hear them.
She wrote back:In London. With Izzy and Preston.
Gianni wrote:Yeah. Oops. Forgot.
—
Audrey Lake had left a dozen text messages for Nikki. More emojis and then a series of crooked photographs of what she’d eaten for dinner: marinara pizza and chips and an orange Fanta and a tiramisu. Nikki texted her a thumbs-up emoji.
—
People started to filter out of the memorial at around 20:30. Nikki watched the groups of young adults tromp down the stairs and out of the pub. She had the idea of talking to Claire’s mother again, but Lydia was firmly escorted out by the woman from Albion Nanny Agency.
Nikki paid her bill, and then went back upstairs into the memorial room. The space was empty and smelled stale. Bottles and glasses littered the tables, and a platter of forlorn sandwiches was decimated, leaving behind only crumbs and a few wilted slices of lettuce and ham glistening with mayonnaise.
—
Nikki’s hands and face felt numb and cold—something she was starting to associate with death. It had been there at Adriano’s funeral; and that peculiar sensation of distance—seeing things through the wrong end of a telescope.
She seemed to feel it now: the cold church on that December morning.
The funeral came nearly a month after Adriano’s death because the police wouldn’t surrender his remains until they’d finished their investigation. It calmed her to see the coffin, to know that her brother was, at last, back with his family, where he belonged. Rain had invaded Nikki’s coat, her damp collar pressed icily against her neck. Her father wept openly and her usually lively mother stared empty-eyed, fingers like rigid claws at her sides. The posture reminded Nikki of a fairy-tale sorceress, as if any moment, she would lift her hands, casting a spell to rouse Adriano from his sleep.
The men from her brother’s unit stood to attention by the coffin, so orderly in their dress uniforms; fitted tunics and capes and black boots. Nikki remembered the lean body of Sandro Balestrieri, grief twisting his features. After the service Sandro’s pregnant girlfriend stood beside him, wrapping her arms around Sandro, tucked beneath his chin, and he’d kissed the top of her head. How Nikki envied them their consolation. Her own arms had lost the feel of Tito and, aching with emptiness, held only the memory of cradling Adriano long after he had slipped away.
She had learned to accommodate the peculiar ache of loss, grown around it until it became a part of her. Then, little more than a year ago, death returned to refresh the wounds.
The months and weeks leading up to her mother’s death had been tumultuous. Nikki’s relationship with Beatrice had none of the easy rapport that Lydia described with her daughter. Instead, Beatrice had been as stubborn and unyielding as Nikki, as unable to force her feelings into words. A natural tendency for detachment and secrecy had amplified over the years, and Beatrice became a solitary soldier, fiercely secretive and driven—fighting an enemy only she seemed to see. In unguarded moments of fatigue or surprise, however, the armor would slip and then Nikki would glimpse such a tender vulnerability and weariness in her, she wanted to wrap herself around her mother and keep her safe.
When Raoul called Nikki with the news in the dark of early morning, she had raced across Naples and to the mountains of Benevento on her Hornet. Some instinct told her that if she was fast enough, there might be a way to combat the insidious invader that had stolen her mother in her sleep.
Arriving at the house, and into her parents’ bedroom, she almost cried with relief.
You made a mistake, she wanted to say.It isn’t her.
Without the familiar animation, the warm movements, the resonant voice and laughter, the body of her mother had looked nothing like Beatrice Serafino.
Nikki and her father sat together in a strangely frozen vigil the rest of that night. They hadn’t looked at each other, hadn’t touched. Only stared at the body on the bed until the sun lit up the small bedroom, and the undertaker arrived to take Beatrice away.
—
Lost in her thoughts, Nikki was startled when someone said, “You alright?”
It took a moment to recognize the pale, handsome face of Teddy Sexton. He stood at the threshold, leaning back a little to look at her, as if he’d paused on his way someplace else.
“Yeah,” she said. The memories were sticky. She wiped a hand across her face as if to brush away the cobwebs.
He took a step into the room.
“Are you one of Claire’s friends?” he asked.
Nikki felt tired. She’d come here with the intention to investigate, but the prospect had become a stone in her throat. She was done here.
She sighed. “No. I was just leaving.”
She moved to the door and he stepped aside to let her pass.
She wasn’t far down the hall when he called out, “Wait,” and jogged towards her.
