“He left it.”
“Yes.”
She crossed the room and stood beneath the hole in the plaster. The shattered pane in the French door had been repaired. The bullet hole was the only remaining damage.
“He understands buildings remember what they’ve witnessed.”
“He said it in fewer words, but yes.”
She looked up at the hole for another second and then turned toward me. “Your father would approve.”
“He’d want to talk for twenty minutes about the virtues of old plaster.”
“He would, and he would be right.”
I took her into the kitchen and poured coffee. She sat at the table where Thiago had spread maps and schedules all week and wrapped both hands around the mug without drinking immediately.
“You’re tired,” she said.
“I’m busy.”
“Those don’t contradict each other.”
I leaned against the counter. “You came all the way up St. Charles to say that?”
“I came because today matters.” She sipped. “And because if I stayed at the funeral home, four different women would ask whether I’d heard anything about Dominic St. Clair and then tell me what they thought about it. I preferred your opinions in your kitchen.”
“That’s fair.”
Through the open doors, I heard the fountain splashing over the stone. Somewhere farther off, the second line turned down another block, and the brass softened.
My mother set down her mug. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Enough.”
“Luca.”
I frowned.
She ignored it. “And the man from New York?”
“Very competent.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I crossed to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down . “He’s still here.”
“Yes,” she said. “I noticed.”
She finished her coffee and washed the mug before I could rise and take it from her. I joined her at the sink.
She put her hands on either side of my face. “Be careful tonight,” she said.
I nodded. She held me for another second and added, “Afterward, you can stop being so careful.”
She let go, turned, and headed out the door, beneath the live oaks, without looking back.
***
