Chapter 19: Her Father's Study

My father's house in Cicero had been shut for three years.

Sandro had kept the key, and the gate, and the lawn, and a man to cut the grass.

I knew where the back door key lay, under the third flowerpot, because I had hidden it there at fifteen.

It was still there.

Raf stood on the porch with his gun hanging at his side.

"I will count to a hundred," he said. "If I hear one shot, I come through the wall."

"Count to five hundred," I said.

I went in alone.

The hall smelled of dust and old coffee.

My mother's coat still hung on its hook.

I walked past it, along the corridor, to the door of my father's study.

It stood a hand's width open.

A lamp was burning inside.

I pushed the door with the muzzle of the pistol.

Sandro sat in my father's chair.

His charcoal coat was open, and his shirt was dark from the ribs to the belt.

Raf's last shot had found him after all.

He had a gun on the desk under his right hand, and a thick black book under his left.

"You came," he said. "Of course you came."

"Take your hand off the gun."

"I will not."

"Then I will shoot you in the shoulder, and then the knee."

"You would, wouldn't you?" He smiled faintly. "You were always going to be dangerous. I thought I could keep you gentle."

His face was gray.

His eyes were not.

They were as steady as they had been across three years of breakfasts.

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