After a long pause, he stepped back. “Will you come in?”
Her eyes were wide as she looked at him. Then, slowly, she nodded.
—
Valerio became suddenly, uncomfortably conscious of his apartment as Ravenna followed him: shabby secondhand furniture, posters on the wall masquerading as art, stacks of books and newspapers, wires looping out of boxes—entrails of dead electronics that he hadn’t gotten around to burying. Dust on everything. It bothered him that it mattered what she thought of him.
—
In the kitchen, Gemma put the kettle on, and Davide slipped away into the back room with his laptop. Valerio pulled out a chair for Ravenna and she sat, clutching her bag in her lap.
“How do you know each other?” Gemma asked.
“We don’t,” said Ravenna. “We met this week.”
“I like your scrubs. Are you a doctor?”
“Nurse.”
“Babbo’s a cop. Did he tell you?”
“Yes. He told me.”
“He’s really good at his job,” said Gemma. Then, to Valerio, “Did you tell her?”
Valerio passed a hand across his face, and sat heavily in a chair. “I’m sure she isn’t interested.”
He looked around the room—dirty dishes stacked in the sink, the floor that needed sweeping.
Ravenna placed her bag on the floor next to her, and looked at him intently. “I’m actually very interested in the type of policeman you are. Are you someone who finds and punishes the murderer of a boy? Or do you put your head in the sand, and pretend not to see anything?”
“He sees everything,” Gemma assured. “You should hear him. He’s mad at anyone who pretends not to see.”
“How is Ines doing?” Valerio asked quietly.
“How do you think?” said Ravenna with a flare of fury. Then she shook her head and closed her eyes. Her next words were quiet and earnest. “She’s destroyed. I can’t imagine the pain.”
Gemma set two steaming mugs on the table, and kissed Valerio’s cheek.
“I’ve gotta make a call,” she said, and sauntered from the room.
Valerio watched her go, then returned his attention to Ravenna.
“What I don’t understand is why,” she said. “Why him?”
The difficulty, Valerio realized, was his own stupid slowness. Gaetano’s murder had shocked him—in the truest sense of the word. It was so unexpected, so violent, so personal, it had stripped his ability to think. Overwhelmed by guilt, ashamed of his blindness, his ignorance, these were hampering him still—distracting him from the truth of the situation.
And what was the truth?
Gaetano had been killed for a reason. But Valerio couldn’t imagine what that reason was. Had Gaetano been older, more savvy and powerful, there would have been ample explanations. When a well-liked deputy became too influential, the boss had an obligation to put him in his place or risk mutiny. But Gaetano was just a kid—too weak even toresist the unique tortures of Poggioreale. What offense warranted such a violent and public death? Drugs? No. Drug arrests were standard. They happened all the time. Besides, Gaetano’s roommates were still safely ensconced. Gaetano had been singled out. Why?
“He must have known something that Errichiello didn’t want getting out,” Valerio realized.
“What was it?”
Valerio shook his head. “When I talked to him yesterday, he didn’t think he had anything to trade. He may not have known, himself.”
“I worried about him in jail,” said Ravenna. “He was too soft. I thought he would die inside.”
