“Sure were,” Victoria said. “You should’ve seen the state of this place a few weeks ago. Skye’s had to gut the whole thing and start over, haven’t you?”
“It wasn’t quite that bad,” she protested. “Our local contractor, Andreas over there”—she gestured wildly, hoping he would see and come to her aid—“he did a lot of modernization before any of us showed up.”
“But nobody had actually lived in them, correct? So whatever it is that you’ve got buried in your yard here must have been in the ground since the war, if not long before that. This could be the prologue of a decades-old murder mystery.”
Skye opened her mouth and closed it again.
“Do you know much about the previous occupants?” he persisted.
“Well,” Victoria began, “she did find some—”
“No,” Skye cut in. “I don’t know anything.”
Victoria gave her a curious look.
“Putting a story out could help you learn more,” the journalist went on, unfazed by Skye’s abruptness. “In situations like these, it’s not uncommon for someone to see the article and come forward with new information.”
Skye said nothing.
“I’d only need a few words. I could do the interview right now if you’re up for it. Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.”
“Now isn’t a good time,” she told him.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I can’t do that, either.”
“The following day?”
“I have plans.”
Victoria had begun to play with the ends of her glossy ponytail, her gaze flicking between them as if she were watching a particularly uncomfortable tennis match.
“When would suit you, then?” he asked, smile unfaltering.
“I’m sorry.” Skye shook her head. “I’m not— That is to say, I can’t— If you’ll excuse me.”
Before he could press her further, Skye had turned and was hurrying away, slipping through the gap in the wall and past the onlookers toward the village. She shouldn’t have run, not when the police were still there, though Skye couldn’t imagine any of the officers caring much about her absence. None of them had done more than grunt at her, preferring to speak only to Andreas.Bloody men, she thought with unusual savagery.Bloody, bloody men.
When she reached the taverna, Skye paused. Pantelis must have closed on account of the storm. The usually cluttered courtyard had been cleared of furniture, and shutters were pulled down over both doors. He was probably part of the crowd outside her house. She had spotted Klodi as she fled past, his son, Ajax, sitting up on his shoulders. They all wanted front-row seats to the show, while that journalist, whatever his name was, appeared intent on writing its script. What had Victoria been thinking, inviting him in like that? What more would she tell him? For a moment, Skye teetered on the edge of going back. The rush of adrenaline that had driven her had now evaporated, leaving her feeling hollow, unsteady, and thoroughly foolish.
The bakery was not much farther. She would buy herself some spanakopita and find an isolated spot in one of the orchards, sit beneath a tree until the coast was clear.
There was a bell above the door that tinkled as she went inside.
“Geiá sou,” a voice called, and a moment later, Sophia’s diminutive form emerged from the back room. When she saw her customer, she beamed.
“Ómorfo korítsi.Ti káneis? How are you?”
Skye approached the counter.
“OK,” she said before cautiously trying the Greek word. “Entáxei.”
“Bravo, bravo,” the woman said, adjusting her dark blue headscarf. “It is very quiet today, not very many people.”
“Most of the village is at my house,” Skye said, explaining about the bones.
Sophia’s expression shifted from one of polite interest to clear concern. She reached for the rosary beads coiled beside the till, murmuring what sounded like a prayer as her fingers closed around them.
