Chapter 13: Dead by Sunday

I texted my father at one in the morning.

Come to Westbridge. Bring Mom and Franco and nobody else.

He answered in four minutes. We leave at five.

At ten to eight, Bianca came up the garage stairs alone and sat on the end of my bed.

I hadn't asked her to. She didn't say why she came.

Nico stood by the window with his arms folded and watched her without blinking.

At eight a black SUV stopped under the fig tree.

My father came up first, in his good coat, with his jaw set for a fight about money.

My mother came behind him, holding her purse in both hands.

Franco came last and filled the doorway.

Nobody sat. There weren't enough chairs.

"Livia," my father said. "You have a lot of nerve, texting me orders."

"Sit down, Papa."

"I'll stand."

"Then stand." I held my laptop against my chest. "Where were you on the fourteenth of March, nine years ago?"

His face didn't move.

His eyes went to Bianca, and she looked back at him with nothing on her face at all.

"Not in front of the girl," he said.

"She's the one who asked," I said.

"Carmine," my mother said. "Answer her."

He turned. "Rosa, this isn't the place."

"It's the only place you have," my mother said, and her voice shook.

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