“How could you let this happen?” she said in a harsh whisper. “In your house!”
At first, Valerio thought she was talking to him, but her attention was on the altar. She moved towards it unsteadily, like a sleepwalker—slow at first, then with more surety.
“Are we not in your arms? How could you allow this?” She gestured, taking in the whole building, then reached towards the Madonna—a plea and a rebuke.
She shouted, “Are you there? Do you hear me?”
From across the nave, a steely-haired priest hurried towards them, footsteps clipping on the polished floor.
“Signora, please! The church is closed.”
Valerio jogged to intercept.
“Padre,” he said, holding up his wallet and identification. “I’m Capo Valerio Alfieri.”
The man paused, posture suddenly rigid. Only then did Valerio notice the blood on the white of his robes.
“You’re with the police—for the dead woman.”
“You’re sure she’s dead?” Valerio asked.
The priest nodded.
“Did you call one-one-two?”
“Sì.”
“Good. I need you to show me the body. And my mother’s in shock. Is there someplace warm she can rest?”
—
They followed the priest clockwise through the dimly lit church, the stone floor hard and radiantly cold beneath them. They passed rows of empty wooden pews, the confessional boxes carved of dark wood, and the shadowed recesses of the side chapels. At the third chapel, the priest stopped and pointed.
“The sacristy is through those doors. It’s warmer there.”
It was then Valerio saw the bloody footprints. Everywhere. An overlapping, chaotic mess on the inlaid marble.
“Please take my mother,” he told the priest.
—
Using the light from his phone to examine the floor, he carefully stepped outside the range of bloody footprints and scuffs, and followed them to their inevitable, terrible destination.
—
The body was at the far end of the church—in the Chapel of the Crucifix, the area lit by a bank of electric candles.
She was young. Not much older than Valerio’s daughter, Gemma. Early twenties, perhaps, like Maria at the restaurant. Her clothing was soaked, spattered, and smeared in crimson. Blood pooled around her, dark and glistening. A cloying, metallic smell hung in the air. Her pale brown skin was unblemished, and her cheeks were full. Her mouth was open, as if in a last gasp of surprise. Blood on her eyelids indicated that someone had closed them posthumously. Similarly, her posture had clearly been arranged—hands folded across her chest. Her clothes were stylish and tidy: jeans, boots, and a powder-bluepuffer jacket, unzipped to reveal a soft grey sweater. Feathers, burst from slashes in the jacket, had settled onto everything.
A priest in a black suit knelt at a nearby chapel pew, hands clasped around the rosary, eyes shut.
“Padre,” said Valerio, “I’m with the police.”
The man opened his eyes and stood. Valerio stopped him with a shout.
“Please stay where you are!”
The priest nodded, and slowly sat.
