“He was clever.”
“He was both.”
Roberto looks away. For a second, grief stands between us, awkward and uninvited. Then fear shoves it aside.
“I shouldn’t have come back,” he says.
“No.”
“I needed money.”
“Yes.”
“And my sister’s boy is sick.”
There it is. Not guilt. Not courage. Need. Need is more reliable than bravery.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He laughs under his breath. “What do I want? I want to forget your name. I want to forget his. I want to go back to selling cigarettes to men who cheat on their wives and pretend I don’t know.”
“You came to the wrong woman for forgetting.”
“I know.” His hand shakes as he drags it over his mouth.
“What did you see?” I ask.
“I told you.”
“You told me enough to make me chase you. Not enough to make it matter.”
His eyes flash. “It matters to me.”
“Then say it properly.”
He steps back. “No statements.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“You always ask like that. Like it’s not the thing until it is.”
I almost smile. He’s frightened, not stupid.
“I need details,” I say. “Only details. No signature. No recording. No council. No police.”
“No Vitale?”
I glance toward Luca. “There’s no such thing as no Vitale.”
Roberto’s face folds around that truth. “I saw Dante,” he says finally. “Before. Not after.”
“Where?”
“Service road near the old quarry turnoff. Not at the pumps this time. Later.”
My pulse becomes very calm. “When?”
“After the station. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe less.”
