Chapter 5: The Nanny

The nanny lived on the third floor of a brick building in Fort Lee, and she opened the door with the chain on.

She was fifty, plump, with gray roots and a cardigan buttoned wrong.

For three years she had made the children's lunches and ironed Nico's school shirts.

Her face went white when she saw me.

"Mrs. Marzano."

"Open the door," I said.

She didn't, and I put my palm flat against the wood.

"Nico asked for you at breakfast today," I said. "He didn't say anything else, and he didn't eat. Open the door."

The chain slid off, and her hands were shaking.

Her apartment was small and spotless.

On the kitchen table lay a stack of envelopes and a photograph of an old woman in a hospital bed.

"Your mother?" I asked.

"Yes."

"How long has she been in the care home?"

"Four years." The nanny's voice was thin. "Mr. Marzano paid half. Mr. Carmine paid the other half, since June."

"Since June."

"I never asked why." She stood with her fingers knotted together. "I'm so sorry."

Nico had insisted on going to school that morning.

He stood in the kitchen at Santo's mother's table with his blazer on, buttoned wrong, and said Carmine would win if we hid.

Santo drove him, and now he sat in the lot across the street from the gate, watching.

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