“I think he protected me because I was useful.”
“Yes.”
“And because I was his debt.”
“Yes.”
“And because he wanted me.”
Teresa looks at the garden. “Likely.”
“Could you sound less like a priest hearing logistical confession?”
“I have worked in this house for thirty years.”
“Fair.”
The silence returns. Then Teresa says, “Many things can be true and still not be enough.”
That one hurts. I hate when she says useful things.
“Yes,” I agree, grudgingly.
She stands. “Do you know what you’ll do?”
I look at the file. Then at the house. Then down at my stomach.
“Yes,” I finally say. The word surprises me, but it’s true. I know what I’ll do. “I’ll use it.”
Teresa nods. “Against Dante.”
“Yes.”
“And Alessandro?”
I pause. That’s the real question. I look toward the lit windows of the north wing.
“Not to protect him,” I say.
Teresa waits.
“To make him carry it out in the open.”
Her face softens by one degree. “The debt.”
“Yes,” I say. “It doesn’t clear. But it stops hiding.”
“That’s a choice.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
She cocks her head to one side. “Do you stay?”
The question enters my mind more gently than it should. I could lie. To her. To myself. To the garden.
