Her grip is dry and firm. “Thank you for coming.”
I release her hand.
She gestures to the bench. “Sit. Unless you’d rather walk.”
I glance at the path. Too open. Too many people passing close, then gone. Too much movement.
“The bench is fine.”
I sit on the far side of it, leaving space between us.
Cindy sits again and crosses one leg over the other, coffee in hand.
“You said in your email that you’ve already seen the public material.”
“Yes. I found everything I could find in English, at least, which wasn’t much. I had to rely on translation for the Italian articles.”
Her mouth curves faintly. “Machine translation?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That can make already careful reporting look even stranger.”
“Don't I know it?”
“Do you?”
I look at her.
She does not blink.
“I’m not here because I confused bad translation with evidence,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “That would have been a short meeting.”
I do not like her.
The immediate thought makes me feel silly. I have no reason not to like her. I don't know anything about her.
I fold my hands in my lap, then uncurl them when I realize how tense they look.
“I’m aware speculation is not evidence. I’m also aware that wealthy families often keep medical information and personal tragedies private.”
She leans back in the bench and takes a sip of coffee while watching me.
“Very lawyerly.”
My stomach tightens. “So you've done some research of your own.”
Her expression remains pleasant.
“You contacted a journalist from an anonymous email account to ask about a very powerful, very private man and the dead wife most people are too careful to mention directly. You had to know I would want to know who was asking.”
“I told you I had a legitimate reason.”
“You told me you had a reason. I haven’t decided whether it’s legitimate.”
The bad feeling gets worse.
