“When I have something solid.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“That’s how it works with me.”
He held my gaze for a beat. Then he picked up his coffee, drained it, and set the mug down with the precision of a man who built coffee cup towers for a living.
“Fine. But Gina—“ He leaned forward, and for a second the cop dropped away and it was just him, tired and serious and closer than he needed to be. “Be careful. The killer is smart. Patient. And they think they’ve gotten away with it. Almost did if you didn’t come to me. People like that get dangerous when they realize someone’s looking.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Lock your door.”
“You said that last time.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
He left money on the table—enough for both of us, which I noticed and he pretended was nothing—and walked out. I watched through the window as he crossed the parking lot.
Rosaria watched too, from the napkin dispenser.
“Well,” she said. “He is not wrong about the danger.” She paused. “He is also not wrong about locking your door. For once, listen to someone.”
I finished my coffee, stole one of Tony’s leftover fries, and drove home thinking about teacups and the diary that might hold the answer to all of it. Now, more than ever, I needed to get my hands on that diary.
I picked up my phone and texted Carmen:Do you know if Nonna’s dresser is still in her house? The old one in her bedroom?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I think so. No one has cleaned out that room yet. Why?
Just wondering.
I set the phone down and looked at Rosaria’s reflection. She was waiting, the way she always waited—imperious, expectant, absolutely certain I’d do what needed to be done.
For once, she was right.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jill had drawna floor plan of the Ferraro house on her legal pad, and it was surprisingly accurate for someone who’d never been inside.
“I’m working from your descriptions and Google Earth,” she said, tapping her pen against the layout. “Side entrance through the mudroom, here. Main staircase to the second floor, here. Rosaria’s bedroom, second door on the left. The whole thing should take twelve minutes if we don’t hit complications.”
“When do we ever not hit complications?” Tammy said. She was behind the bar at Bayberry House mixing a pitcher of something she called “liquid courage,” which was just margaritas with an extra shot of tequila and a name that made the felony we were planning feel more festive.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear the word ‘felony’ in my own head just now,” Jill said. “For the record, I want everyone to know that I have documented my objections to this plan in writing. I emailed myself a memo.”
“You emailed yourself a memo about our burglary?” I said.
“It’s a personal file. Attorney work product. Old habits.” She uncapped her pen, recapped it, uncapped it again. “Look, I know we need the diary. I know this is the only way. I’m justsaying that when I was prosecuting B&E cases in Boston, the defendants always had a very compelling reason for why theyhadto break in, and I always got convictions anyway. So let’s be smart about it.”
Lori, who’d been studying Jill’s floor plan with her reading glasses on the tip of her nose, set it down and looked at me. “Saturday night. No one is usually at the house, right?”
I nodded. “Big family dinners on Sunday so everyone does their own thing on Saturday. Carman said no one goes there much anyway, just to tend to things that have to do with the estate.”
“I’ll drive,” Lori said.
“You don’t have to?—”
