“Careful,” Marco says.
Then he walks away. I remain where I am for ten seconds, hearing his words echo in my head.Cousin. Not the station.
The cousin.
A gas station clerk with a cousin? A witness moved through family? Someone paid? Someone scared?
I go back to my room and write the phrase down.
That night, I search the household accounts again. Delivery slips. Repair invoices. Receipts for small payments made in cash by people who think small amounts of cash don’t leave a scent.
They do. Money has habits.
Three months ago, a payment went to a garage outside the city. Another to the same district two weeks later. A mechanic named Paolo Greco signed one receipt, then a second receipt was signed by an “R. Greco.”
A cousin, perhaps.
Greco. I find the name again in a newspaper clipping folded into a file on “local disruptions.” A robbery at a gas station. Witness declined to comment. Clerk unnamed. Owner: Roberto Greco.
Roberto.
R. Grego.
The world narrows again. Not into a tunnel this time. Into a blade.
I have a name. Names are doors with handles.
* * *
The next morning, I dress for church. Black wool dress. Gloves. Veil. Sensible shoes.
The outfit screams “grief.” The lining says “graphite copy, folded cash, and a list of questions sharp enough to cut the inside of my sleeve.”
The cash came from my emergency reserve, sewn into the hem of a coat my father insisted I bring because “alliances are only warm until they aren’t.”
The ride to the village is quiet. Luca takes the expected route, either from carelessness or proof that the route itself no longer matters. I watch the road, anyway.
The chapel is small, old, and determined to look humble despite the money clearly spent keeping it beautiful. The stones are damp from morning mist. The bell tower leans slightly, as if listening for gossip.
Luca stops near the entrance. “I’ll wait outside.”
“How trusting.”
I enter. Inside, the air smells of wax, incense, and generations of women asking God for things men had already decided. Three old women pray near the front. A priest moves somewhere behind a screen. Candles flicker in red glass cups, small supervised fires for sanctioned desperation.
I light one for my father. That had been part of the lie, but it becomes true in my hand. The flame catches.
For one second, my throat tightens. I breathe through it, then step back.
There’s a side door near the sacristy. It opens into a narrow alley. I noticed it the first time we arrived because I notice doors before altars. Old habit. Useful habit. Blasphemous habit, depending on who is counting.
The old women pray. The priest disappears. Luca waits at the front.
I move.
I drift along the side aisle, pause near a statue of a saint holding something sharp and improbable, then slip through the side door. The alley is empty.
Good. Or allowed.
