Chapter 17: Vincent

Vincent Saraceno knew where the boy would be before the second man's text came through.

He did not say it aloud.

Maura was in the passenger seat with her seat belt off.

Her hand was already on the door handle.

"Where?" she said.

"West Roxbury. The cemetery."

"The crypt?"

"His father's wall."

She said nothing more.

They drove through the empty streets at ninety.

They passed a bakery truck and a parked police cruiser that did not stir.

The Saraceno mausoleum stood at the end of a gravel lane under dripping oaks.

Its bronze door was open an inch.

Vincent got out and told her to stay by the car.

"No."

"Five minutes. He won't talk with you standing behind me. He'll think he has to be brave."

She looked at the door, and then at him.

"Five," she said.

Inside, it smelled of cold stone and old flowers.

A single candle burned on the floor, one of the little red glass ones from the chapel rack.

Nico sat cross-legged in front of the wall of marble drawers, in his pajamas and one sneaker.

His back was against the drawer that held his father.

On the far side of the room was the gap where the small white casket had stood.

Nobody had moved the cutting torch yet, or scrubbed the black scorch marks off the floor.

"Hi, Uncle Vincent," Nico said without turning.

"Hi."

Vincent sat on the floor next to him.

His knees cracked.

Both of his palms were still tight and shiny, and he tucked them under his arms.

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