Chapter 7: Roses

"Stay behind me," Rocco said.

"It's Thurston."

"I know who it is."

"He has flowers. He's not armed."

"People who aren't armed have friends who are." But he put the gun in the back of his waistband and pulled his T-shirt down over it.

He opened the front door.

Thurston stood on the porch under the yellow light in his good navy coat, holding a huge bouquet of white roses wrapped in paper.

There was a taxi idling at the end of the drive.

He looked at Rocco's bare feet and sweatpants and the gray in his hair.

Then he looked past him to me, standing in the hall in an old sweatshirt with a bandaged hand.

I saw him add it up wrong.

"Oh," he said. "I see."

"You don't see anything," I said.

"It's two in the morning, Livia. You're in his house. You've been gone a week."

"You came to my door at two in the morning with roses, Thurston."

"I came because I miss you."

His voice cracked on the last word.

"I made a huge mistake. It was a joke that went too far, and I'll say that to anyone. I'll say it to the whole ballroom if you want."

"How did you find this place?"

"What?"

"This house. It isn't in anyone's name. How did you get the address?"

He hesitated for one second, which was one second too long.

"A guy at the bar near my office. He said he was your uncle. He said you'd be so happy to see me, and he gave me this address and paid for the cab."

Rocco had gone completely still.

"What did he look like?" I said.

"Heavy. Silver hair. He had a ring on his little finger." Thurston looked from one of us to the other. "Why? Isn't he your uncle?"

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