I sat with that. The restaurant creaked around us. Through the dark window, I could see the street, the closed shops, the glow of a streetlight on wet pavement. My reflection looked back at me from the glass—just me, no ghosts, no spectral critics.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to mention,” Lori said, her voice shifting to her clinical tone. “About Rosaria’s ghost. You said she’s anchored to you specifically, not to a place. And Tammy confirmed it.”
“Right.”
“Strong emotions anchor spirits. The stronger the feeling, the stronger the hold. Murder would do it—the rage, the injustice. But Tammy said the attachment was unusually intense, even for a murder victim.” Lori paused. “That suggests there’s something else. Another piece of unfinished business beyond the murder. Something personal, something she hasn’t resolved.”
I thought about Rosaria at the family house, staring at the photo of herself. The way her voice had gone quiet when she talked about Paula. The things she’d almost said and then pulled back from.
“She’s holding onto something,” I said.
“She’s holding onto a lot of things. That’s what kept her here.” Lori adjusted her glasses. “But here’s the practical question. Do you have any idea who killed her? Because the fastest way to get Rosaria Ferraro out of your bathroom mirror is to solve the murder.”
“I don’t know who did it. Not yet.”
“But?” Tammy leaned forward, chin on her palm. She’d heard thebutbefore I’d said it.
“But I might know where there’s a clue.” I picked at the edge of a napkin, tearing it into strips without thinking about it. “Paula came to see me. Sal’s sister. She showed up at the cottage with wine and this whole concerned-sister-in-law routine, and then she brought up Rosaria’s diary.”
“Diary,” Jill repeated.
“Locked. Leather-bound. Rosaria kept it for decades—wrote in it every night. She wanted to know if I knew anything about it.” I lined up the napkin strips on the table. “She knew exactly where Rosaria kept it. Top drawer of the dresser. She’d seen it when she was sixteen and got caught snooping.”
“So Paula tracked you down to talk about a diary she hasn’t seen in thirty years.” Tammy’s voice had lost its warmth. Not cold—careful. “That’s not casual, sugar. That’s fishing.”
“Was she fishing for the diary?” Jill asked. “Or fishing to see ifyouhad it?”
“Either way, she wanted to know where it was,” Lori said.
Jill uncapped her pen—she’d started carrying the legal pad everywhere—and tapped it against the table. “Okay, butwhy? If Paula’s just trying to help, she’d mention it and move on. If she’s bringing it up specifically, unprompted, driving two hours to do it—“ The pen tapped faster. “That’s strategic. That’s someone with a stake in what’s inside.”
“Rosaria said the diary had secrets about everyone,” I said. “What if there’s something in there about Paula? Something she doesn’t want anyone else to find?”
“Then she’d want it before you got it,” Tammy said.
“Or before the police got it,” Jill added. “From a legal standpoint—sorry, from acommon sensestandpoint—a diary full of family secrets in the hands of a murder investigation would be a nightmare for anyone with something to hide.”
I stopped shredding the napkin. “There’s only one way to find out what’s in it. I need to get into Rosaria’s house and look for it. If it’s still there.”
The table went quiet for a beat. Then Tammy and Jill both started talking at the same time.
“We can help with that?—“
“I have some thoughts on entry points and?—“
“Hold on.” Lori held up a hand, and they both stopped. She had that effect. “Is Rosaria’s stuff even still there? She kept it in her drawer but have they cleaned stuff out? Sold things?”
Good question. I wasn’t in the know anymore, but Carmen could tell me if Rosaria’s things were still there..
“I can find out,” I said. “Give me a few days.”
We closed up after that. Tammy packed the leftover enchiladas into a container and pressed them into my hands like a prescription. Lori locked the back door with Tammy’s spare key and walked me to the corner before heading to her car. Jill waved goodnight from across the street, her legal pad tucked under one arm like classified documents.
I walked home through the cold, ate half the enchiladas standing at the kitchen counter, and went to bed with my head full of diaries and suspects and a dead woman’s secrets.
I needed a break. I needed twenty-four hours where the biggest decision I made was paint color versus pattern, where nobody mentioned murder or unfinished business or the wordanchored.
Tomorrow I was driving to HomeGoods, buying something for the cottage that I picked out myself, and pretending to be a woman whose biggest problem was throw pillow selection.
