It had been strangely difficult to leave Izzy and Preston in the hospital. She had the sense of pressed flowers—every color and delicate fold carefully preserved, translucent, desperately fragile. Not one for sentimentality, Nikki had nonetheless experienced a pang of anxiety as they waved her out of sight.
Izzy had insisted, with a smile, “Oh, don’t worry about us.”
Nikki considered her aunt. The burden of Preston grew weightier every day, but she couldn’t lift any part of this when Izzy made it clear she wanted to carry it alone.
—
Crowds thickened, slowing their progress as they approached Nikki’s flat in the city’s historic center. With several blocks to go, Valerio pulled up to the curb. Nikki dismounted and, removing her helmet, turned to say goodbye. But Valerio switched off the motor and took off his helmet, too—clearly intending to come with her.
Business had resumed in the busy Gesù Nuovo piazza, the sellers’ stalls in their usual places: one hawking jewelry, another ceramic tiles, another black Pulcinella masks and dangling cornicelli. Beside these was an army vehicle in green camo and two uniformed soldiers cradling assault rifles.
The church doors were open again. Tourists joined the faithful in their slow march inside.
At the base of the Guglia dell’Immacolata, set against the iron railing, a makeshift shrine had formed, filled with handwritten notes, and carnations wrapped in cellophane. Assuming this was for Claire, Nikki drew near. But the framed photograph at the center showed a different young woman: large eyes outlined in kohl, and bleached curls.
Nikki stared for several seconds before recognizing Signora Dorotea—at least three decades out of date.
She paused, and whistled sharply for Valerio, who was bulldozing through the mob.
A plump woman with an umbrella stood at the shrine. She set a bundle of carnations on the ground, crossed herself, then pivoted to the church and crossed herself again.
“What happened here?” Nikki asked.
The woman turned. A scarf was wrapped tightly around her head, showing a broad face and arched eyebrows penciled into an expression of surprise.
“Signora Dorotea. God rest her soul.”
“The fortune teller?”
“Sì,” said the woman. “She had the sight. Assisto. Guided by the souls of the dead. She interpreted my dreams, and gave me my numbers.”
“What happened?” Nikki asked.
The woman crossed herself again—a motion that seemed more compulsive than religious. “You haven’t heard?”
“No.”
“A robbery. In her home. They killed her.”
Nikki’s pulse quickened. Not even a week had passed since Claire’s murder. A dreadful coincidence—if that’s what it was.
“When was this?”
“Sunday. Pray for her soul.”
The woman hurried off.
The memory of Signora Dorotea felt strangely present: the garish orange scarf and fierce eyes, the lipstick leaching into the crevices around her lips, and cool chapped skin as she gripped Nikki’s hand.
Valerio had returned to Nikki’s side and was following her gaze to the memorial shrine.
“Who was it?” he asked.
Nikki seemed to sense something hidden; some pattern of shadows she should be able to decipher if she looked carefully. She glanced from the shrine to the grey facade of the church, where her mother had once seemed to see a secret message. Her skin prickled with a sudden chill.
“Fortune teller,” she said. “Murdered.”
—
