It has been a long time since I wrote to you, and I am sorry for that. I know you must of course be angry with me, and disappointed. I received six letters from you, all on one day, and words alone cannot express how much it meant to read them. It is funny,katsikáki, that the way you write is also the way that you speak, and while I hold your letters, it is possible for me to pretend, if only for a few hours, that you are here with me. That is the greatest gift.
The reason I have not written sooner is a simple one, though it is hard for me to confess it. Things have happened here, Kat, many things that cannot be forgotten and perhaps not ever forgiven. Michalis tells me that if God put us on this path, then He must also be willing to understand the reasons for such violence. Men have died at my hand, men who were not so different from me, young and brave and righteous. They sought to steal my country, and for that, I stole their lives from them. My fellow soldiers compare such barbarity to sums on a blackboard, but life and death are not so simple; it is nottwo plus two equals four, it is only zero, nothing, emptiness. I fear that there will be a day of great reckoning for us all, but the gate has been opened now, and nobody can close it. We must stay, and we must fight, and many more people will be killed.
The line here is held, but we are tired. The mood is one of trepidation, for we know that Mussolini is as tenacious as a mosquito. He will hover, waiting for the right time to strike, and then he will come with the fury of the Nazi power behind him. The men speak of it often, whispers passing between the battalions, the echoes of marching boots following us to our dreamless beds. I do not sleep, Kat. The darkness I hold inside is total.
War will not end here, in the shadow of these mountains stained by blood. You must prepare, Kat. Ration your food, build shelter in a place that cannot be found, collect anything that can be used as a weapon, remove bricks from your walls, and hide your treasures inside. The brothers Atlas and Zephyr will be able to help you. Show this letter to them, make them understand what is coming. Both men are fighters, and they will teach you if you ask them. I know that you are defiant, but you must also be smart. Do not allow your anger to make you reckless. Think only of survival; do whatever you must to remain safe.
I wanted more than anything to shield you from the horror of who I have become, but to do so would be to lie to you, and that I could never do. We are one soul, my fierce girl. We are each other’s conscience, each other’s pain.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
S
Twenty-six
Skye assumed that one or two police officers would arrive, collect the bones with minimal fuss, and be on their way soon afterward. What she didn’t expect was for an industrial digger to roll up with them, along with a crowd of local residents.
“How does everyone know already?” she asked Andreas, scooting out of the way as three heavyset men in navy uniforms stomped past her through the mud.
“A lot of very big mouths on a very small island,” he said, ever the pragmatist. “As soon as one person discovers something, it is certain he will tell three more.”
“Is it really necessary for them to excavate the entire garden?” she added as the teeth of the digger broke through the top layer of earth. “And with that bloody thing? If there are any more bones down there, they’ll end up as dust.”
“I will ask them to be careful,” Andreas said.
He moved away just as Adam emerged through the gap in thewall, camera already raised. This time he didn’t stop to ask for permission. Victoria followed, a stout man in glasses at her side. Skye had never seen him before, and the prickle along her spine was immediate.
“There are so many people out front,” Victoria said as Skye joined them in the shade of the lemon tree. “I hope you don’t mind us sneaking in like this.”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Skye said, addressing the newcomer.
“We haven’t,” he agreed. “Are you the homeowner?”
He spoke with a clipped British accent and had a pinkish complexion, his round, slightly puffy face giving little away. The linen shirt he wore was pulled tight over a protuberant belly. If Skye had to guess, she’d place him in his late forties, though he could’ve been anywhere between thirty and fifty.
“I am,” she said warily.
“Beautiful spot you have up here.”
“Thanks, I like it.”
“Vicky here was just telling me about your lottery wins. That’s what I call a stroke of luck.”
Victoria turned from where she’d been openly staring at one of the more attractive officers.
“We’re honestly still pinching ourselves,” she enthused. “Every day, I find a new reason to love this little rock.”
“What brings you to the island?” Skye asked, though she really wanted to know what he was doing inhergarden.
“I’m here writing a travel piece for Condé Nast,” he said. “One of those off-the-beaten-path-type features, though it appears I’ve stumbled across something rather more newsworthy. A one-euro-lottery home with bones buried in the back garden as a kicker! It basically writes itself.”
Skye felt a hammering behind her ribs, too fast and too jagged.
“We don’t know that it’s anything more than someone’s pet,” she said, punctuating her words with a forced-sounding laugh. “A dog or cat maybe. That’s the most likely scenario.”
The man narrowed his eyes.
“Rather a lot of fuss for a pet,” he said evenly as the digger turned over more clumps of earth. “And am I right in thinking these houses were abandoned during World War Two?”
