Chapter 9: The Terrace at One

I woke alone, with the sheet pulled to my chin and sunlight across the bed.

The other side was empty and still warm.

On the pillow lay a folded note in Luca's handwriting.

Gone to the docks. Eat something. Don't open the cousin's drawer without me.

Under it he had drawn a very small, very bad coat.

I laughed into the pillow.

Then I lay still and counted what I knew.

My husband had no cough after sex.

He had no cough at the top of the stairs with a file box on his hip.

He had a scar on his ribs that he would explain later.

Every cough I had heard came when someone else was in the room.

I did not say the word for it, not even in my head.

I got up, showered and went down to breakfast in the grey wool coat, because the morning was cool.

The cousin with the ring sat at the far end of the table.

His face was gray, and he did not look at me.

Luca's mother poured my coffee with her own hands.

"You look well, dear," she said, and blushed pink for no reason.

I blushed too.

My phone buzzed against the saucer.

It was an unknown Brooklyn number, and I knew who it was before I answered.

"Gemma," Cesare said.

"What do you want?"

"To talk. I'm at the Biltmore. Come alone."

"I'm married."

"I know. I saw the pictures." His voice was soft, with an edge under it.

"I'm not asking you to leave him. I'm asking for half an hour, in public. You owe me an explanation."

I thought about the garage and the black mask.

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