Page 59 of Saltwater

Part II

Investigation Into Sarah Lingate’s Death Reopened

Financial Times

Wednesday, July20, 2022

Capri, Italy(AP)—Additional informationabout the 1992 death of Sarah Lingate has prompted the Arma dei Carabinieri and the Polizia di Stato, acting jointly, to reopen the investigation into what had been deemed the accidental death of the playwright.

“We cannot elaborate at this time,” said an officer briefed on the matter. “A formal statement will be made if an arrest or official change in the death certificate becomes necessary.”

Sources close to the decision say that the reopening began almost a year ago, when new material related to the case emerged. Official representatives did not share any details; however, sources indicate that both witnesses and additional written information have been submitted to Italian authorities. No one has been able to confirm the authenticity or origin of the new evidence.

Over the years, many in the investigative community have suggested that not enough attention was paid to Lingate’s family at the time of her death. The playwright’s husband was briefly a named suspect in the case, but ultimately exonerated. No investigation into Lingate’s brother-in-law or sister-in-lawwas ever pursued. Despite these criticisms, the case has remained closed.

Representatives for the Lingate family could not be reached for comment at press time; a family friend stated they were vacationing on the island of Capri.

Helen

Now

During the boat ride backfrom Tiberio, I think I see her twice: first, on the bow of a tender that passes us when we reach the teeth of the Faraglioni, the wind tugging at her loose hair. And again, when I disembark at the Marina Piccola and see her in the window of an apartment building, stringing kitchen towels in the midafternoon sun. And I might believe it really was her if it weren’t for the fact that the outline of her lifeless body clicks into stereoscopic focus every time my eyes close.

Click. Death.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me back to the yacht?” Stan says.

I could, I know. But I want to be with them when the police arrive. Because surely they will arrive. I want to see their faces. To see how they decide to spin Lorna’s death. I think I’ll be able to tell, in that moment, if they’re surprised. Or if they knew.

“I’ll be fine,” I say to Stan.

“You don’t have to be with them,” Stan says.

Still, he doesn’t understand.

“They’re my family,” I say.

And then there’s the thing I don’t say:I have to. It’s my fault.Only I can fix it.

I try to isolate the moment that led to Lorna’s death. Did it begin with me wanting more? More autonomy, more space? Or did it beginwhen Lorna and I became friends? Did it start with Stan blackmailing her or when the necklace arrived? Or was it earlier? Was my mother’s death the thing that led us here? Wasn’t that when the balance shifted? When everything got tighter, smaller? Wasn’t that why Lorna was out, two nights ago, on the island of Capri with a bag of money—to keep my mother’s death out of the public discourseagain?

“If you need anything—” Stan says.

It feels like the thing he has to say.

Some part of me can still see him intercepting Lorna two nights ago. Asking her why she’d been avoiding him. Growing angry. Making a terrible mistake. A push, a strike, a drowning. I look around the surfaces of his boat one last time, but any evidence of her has long since been scrubbed clean.

I leave Stan in the marina. And when I reach the entrance to the villa, I stand in the street. I hesitate. I could never open this gate again. I could leave. Disappear. Take Stan up on his offer to help. But I owe Lorna more than that.

When I open the door, nothing has changed: the columns and the lawn and the sea at the cliff’s edge are the same. The miniature paradise the same despite Lorna’s death, despite my mother’s. Every time I blink, I see Lorna’s body. I don’t know how I’ve avoided seeing my mother’s body all these years, too.

The fact they can still come here and enjoy this—the villa, the pool, the view—after her body was found mangled at the bottom of that cliff, the one right at the end of the garden, causes my skin to bump despite the heat. Every year they come here to show me what they’re capable of. They’ve never had to say it out loud.

They’re capable, I know, of leaving Lorna’s body in the water. I’ve tried to tell myself, on the boat ride, on the walk back here, that it could have been a stranger who killed her, someone who followed her. Someone who wanted the money. There’s Ciro’s hand—the cut so deep, so fresh, it’s barely healed. There’s Stan’s anger. But the truth has always been in the contours of my face, the sound of my last name. They’ve relied on that: that I’m one of them. It’s why, coming backto this villa, I don’t think they’ll hurt me. It’s perverse to know that it’s all in the service of protectingus.Even me.

I walk into a silent foyer. The kitchen is empty. In the living room, I see the faint outline of a body pressed into one of the couches.

Click.I see Lorna.

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