The laptop screen glows in front of me.
Anna Conti’s face is still there.
Beautiful.
Dead.
Found in her home.
Cause of death not released.
My throat tightens.
Is that what this is?
Is that the reason there is so little information?
Is that the reason legitimate outlets say almost nothing and only this awful little site says the thing no one else will?
Because everyone knows.
Because everyone is afraid.
Because Mario Conti has enough power, enough money, enough influence to keep a death quiet.
I think of his hands.
On my waist.
In my hair.
Around my wrists.
Gentle when I needed gentle.
Hard when I begged for hard.
I think of those same hands around another woman’s throat.
“No,” I say again, but this time the word is weaker.
My skin prickles.
Am I sleeping with a murderer?
The thought is so awful, I almost laugh from shock.
Am I sleeping with a man who murdered his wife and covered it up?
A man with grown sons who know, or suspect, or do not know at all?
A man with brothers who would protect him?
A man with so much power and influence that only a gossip rag would even dare come close to asking the question?
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
Then I close the laptop.
