I finished paying the vendor. He counted back change and said something about the basil going fast. I thanked him and walked toward the herb stand.
The questions sounded casual enough, but they were about Dominic’s movements, timing, and entry points.
I bought the last bunch of basil. The woman wrapped the stems in damp paper and tied them with twine. I thanked her and headed toward home.
By the time I turned off Magazine Street, I’d settled on my assessment of Bridget. She knew what she was doing, and the knowledge was slowly altering how she carried herself.
The kitchen was bright when I returned, with the long windows above the sink catching the mid-morning light. Thiago was at the table with his tablet open beside a mug of coffee. He looked up when I set the market basket on the counter.
“You walked,” he said.
“Yes, fresh air and exercise. I feel virtuous.”
I unpacked the tomatoes and set them on the cutting board. The basil followed, still damp through the paper. Then garlic. Thiago watched without speaking, and his tablet went dark.
I reached for the knife and cut the first tomato cleanly through its center. Juice spread across the board. The smell that rose was clean and bright. Perfection.
“I know who it is on the inside,” I said.
I sliced into the second tomato, and Thiago didn’t move.
“I think I’ve known for several days.” I cut the tomato into thick slices. “But I kept looking for reasons I was wrong.”
“Bridget?” he asked.
“Yes.”
I kept working.
“What did you see?”
“Nothing dramatic. She asked about timing.” I pulled out the third tomato. “Whether Dominic stayed late after rehearsal, and how he would enter the day of the concert.”
“Staging questions.”
“Delivered as ordinary conversation.”
He was quiet for a moment. The ceiling fan turned above us, pulling the warm air in a slow, patient circuit.
“She knows,” I said.
“Knows what.”
“What she’s doing. The weight of it. Her posture shows something heavy on her shoulders.”
“We don’t move on her yet. If we move on her, we lose Henri.”
“Yes.” I set the knife flat against the board and looked at him. “I’m not moving on her.”
My messenger bag was hanging on the hook by the door, where I’d left it the night before. The letter from the regional orchestra board was in the outer pocket, tucked inside a folder I had not opened since the archive room. I had thought about it each morning since, but I still hadn’t shared it.
What I thought Bridget had done and what Dominic had done were different failures, and they did not belong in the same breath. Dominic’s couldn’t cause the end of anyone’s life.
“I will pass your insight on to Eamon,” Thiago said.
***
Dominic came downstairs in the late afternoon wearing a dark jacket and a white linen shirt, open at the collar.
