Chapter 5: White Lilies on March Third

I told Matteo about the envelope that evening, because I needed a ride and I had no one else to ask.

He didn't ask what was in it.

"Where?" he said.

"Saint Anne's cemetery, on the West Side. Tomorrow morning, before my appointment."

"I'll drive," he said.

"You have a driver."

"Not for this."

The next morning he took the wheel himself.

He parked by the iron gate, and the sky was the color of dishwater.

The detective's page said the plot was in the old section, near the wall.

Matteo walked a step behind me and didn't speak.

The stone was small and gray, with a name cut into it and two dates.

Rosa Lenti. Twenty-six years old.

I read the second date and counted it on my fingers, because my head wouldn't do it.

She had died on March third.

"That's my birthday," I said.

Nobody in the Moretti house had ever said it to me on the day.

Matteo said nothing.

I looked up at him, and his jaw was tight, and he was looking at the stone, not at me.

On the grass in front of the headstone lay a bunch of white lilies in green paper.

The petals were still wet, and the stems were freshly cut.

"Someone's been here today," I said.

"Yes."

An old man in a canvas jacket was raking leaves two rows over.

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