Chapter 12: The Back Door

I closed my door before she reached the landing.

I stood behind it with my hand over my mouth and listened to her go past.

One flight up, a key turned.

A door shut.

Something heavy hit my walnut floor right over my head.

I didn't sleep.

At six I picked up my phone to call Mauro.

I got as far as his name on the screen.

Then I thought about Mrs. Zito's hands shaking, and his voice on the sidewalk.

You made a widow say her husband cheated on her.

If I called him about a cardboard box, he'd call Sergio.

He needed to see it.

So did I.

Sunday came slow.

At two-thirty Gabriella came down the front stairs in a camel-colored dress and heels.

I watched her through my new window from behind the veil rack.

A black town car picked her up at the curb.

Sunday dinner in Packer Park started at three and never ended before seven.

I had four hours.

I went upstairs to the storage room and opened the back window.

The fire escape was right outside it, black iron, wet from the morning.

I'd painted it myself the summer I did the curtains.

I climbed out in my sneakers and went up one flight with my heart banging.

The kitchen door was at the top.

It had a window with a little lace curtain I'd made out of a christening gown nobody wanted.

I took out my key ring.

The small brass key was the one I'd had cut the first week, the week I tore out the old linoleum.

I'd never told anyone about it.

Not Mauro, not Annette, not the locksmith.

It turned.

I stepped into my kitchen.

It smelled like someone else's perfume and burned toast.

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