People are often helpful when they’re wrong.
“How long has he been here?” I ask.
“Seven minutes.”
“And I’m only being told now?”
“He was being searched.”
That does make me smile. Poor Rory. No one enjoys being reminded they’re a guest in someone else’s fortress.
“What did he say?”
“Several things,” Teresa replies.
“Were any of them polite?”
“No.” Teresa steps aside.
By the time I reach the east sitting room, I’ve already put three possibilities in order.
One: Rory forced the meeting through Irish channels and Alessandro allowed it to prevent escalation.
Two: Alessandro offered the meeting to test whether I would run, if given a door wide enough.
Three: both.
Rory is standing by the window with his back to me, hands braced on the sill as if the glass has personally offended him. He looks too large for the room. Too Irish for the Italian furniture. Too alive against the tasteful restraint of pale walls, dark wood, and blue porcelain arranged by someone who believes grief should never clash with décor.
He turns when I enter. For one second, his face changes. I’m suddenly ten years old again, standing in the hall with a scraped knee I refused to cry over because Papa was in a meeting. Rory had looked at me like that, angry at the world for hurting me, angrier at himself for arriving after the fact.
“Evie.”
There it is. The thing I’ve avoided for two weeks.
My name in a familiar voice.
It lands too close to the crack.
So I close the door on it. “Uncle.”
His eyes move over me quickly. Too quickly. Checking for weight, bruises, fear—whatever men look for when they want proof that worry has been useful.
“I came as soon as I could.”
Teresa remains at the door.
Rory notices. “Does she need to stand there?”
“Teresa usually does what she likes,” I say.
That earns me a look from Teresa. “I’ll be outside,” she says.
The door closes. We’re alone. Probably.
There are no cameras visible, which means nothing. The Vitale family doesn’t seem like the sort to hang surveillance where a woman in mourning can admire it. I’ve found twohidden cameras in public rooms so far. Three, if the carved cherub in the chapel is more modern than its expression suggests.
This room has one mirror too many. So: we’re probably not alone.
