Chapter 8: Caught in the Stockroom

The door opened six inches and stopped against the chain Papa had put on in 1985.

A hand came through the gap. Slim. A diamond tennis bracelet slid down the wrist.

The hand felt for the chain and lifted it off its track.

The door swung open.

A woman slipped in, small flashlight in her mouth, and eased the door shut behind her.

She didn't see Leandro. Nobody ever expected a man that size to be that still.

She didn't see me on the stairs.

The beam swept over the shelves. Saline. Gauze. The old file boxes.

Then the binders, lined up by year and month on the steel rack.

She ran her finger along the spines and pulled one out.

I didn't have to see the label. I knew the gap it left.

March.

She tucked it under her arm and turned for the door.

Leandro reached up and pulled the chain on the bare bulb over the cot.

The stockroom went white.

Silvia screamed, and the flashlight fell out of her mouth and rolled under the shelves.

She was in black leggings and a black hoodie, a cat burglar costume from a catalog. The hoodie strained over her stomach.

"Oh my God," she said. "Oh my God. You're actually sleeping with him."

"Put it down," I said.

"Do you know who this is?" She pointed at Leandro with the binder. "Do you know what his family did to my husband?"

Leandro didn't move from the cot. He didn't even stand up.

"I know what your husband's family says my family did," he said.

"How did you get in?" I asked.

She held up a key ring. A little silver horn hung from it, the kind Corsetti men carry for luck.

Vittorio's keys.

He'd had a copy to our side door since the year we got engaged.

"He leaves them on my hall table," she said. "He practically lives at my place now. You didn't know?"

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