Page 66 of Saltwater

I’ve failed to learn from Lorna the one thing she knew with certainty: you are the only person capable of saving you.

We hear my uncle and father come in. Their voices echo up to us, and my uncle is asking for an afternoon drink. Something sour and tart.

“I need to go,” Ciro says again. “I can’t be here when the police arrive. If my friend knew we were this close…”

He lets it hang there. His friend would stop trusting him. His friend would no longer value his opinion on each member of the family. His friend would turn his attention to Ciro and me. I squeeze his hand and watch him slip down the stairs. I check again for the necklace in the drawer, but it only confirms what I already know: it’s gone. I can almost hear my father say,I asked you not to wear it.The accusation being that I deserved to lose it. That it was dangerous not to listen.

A signal comes from the front gate—a dull, ancient buzz that fills the kitchen and travels up the stairs. I go barefoot to the second-story window in the hallway, where I watch the housekeeper reaching forthe heavy wooden door. I don’t need to stay to see who it is, but I do anyway, their blue shirtsleeves an easy giveaway.

The carabinieri are here. They must have passed Ciro in the street. They follow behind her in a clump—three of them.

I trot down the stairs and the housekeeper makes introductions in Italian. I ask how I can help.

“Is the rest of your family at home?”

“Of course,” I say, and gesture that they should follow me.

My heart beats in my throat as we approach the table overlooking the Faraglioni, but neither my father nor uncle looks surprised to see them. In fact, my uncle stands, pulls over three chairs, and offers them graciously. The police decline. They stay standing. I do, too.

“Thank you for your audience,” the oldest and clearly most senior says. It’s an awkward wording, a bad translation.

“What can we help you with?” my father says.

“Do you have another individual traveling with you?” the officer asks.

My uncle nods.

“My assistant,” he says. “Lorna Moreno.”

“And the last time you saw her?”

“Two nights ago,” Freddy volunteers.

Even now, in this environment, everything about Freddy is easy. He’s an invitation back to the normal world. An off-ramp. But the police don’t take it. My palms are sweating; I keep them behind my back, lightly clasped.

“We believe she was found dead this morning,” the officer says. There’s not so much as a flinch. The tone identical to when he asked, moments ago,And the last time you saw her?

“That’s impossible,” Freddy says. And even though he laughs, neither my father nor Marcus says a word. It’s their silence that forces his own, like he’s only just realized this isn’t that kind of conversation. My father and uncle glance at each other, and I try to read their look. It’s quick. My father’s lips thin, but Marcus seems ready to reassure—he blinks, nearly smiles.

“I have something you’ll want to see,” my uncle says. Hedisappears into the house and returns with the letter, the one that arrived with the necklace. He passes it to the officers. “We were just meeting with a friend to discuss what might have happened after we gave Lorna the money two nights ago. We have a call in to a private investigator as well.”

We’ve given them an alibi.

The officer reads it, and something in his shoulders seems to release. But it’s not an easing of tension—it’s disappointment.

“As you can see,” my uncle continues, “we didn’t immediately come to the police, because there are stipulations against it”—he points at the letter, the letterIfurnished them with—“you can see here it is expressly forbidden. If I’m being honest, our first thought was that Lorna had taken the money and simply disappeared.”

The officer passes the letter to his lieutenants, both of whom readit.

Freddy looks between Marcus and me.

“Wait,” Freddy says to me. “You knew?”

I shake my head no.

“We wanted to keep the situation limited,” my father explains. “And we weren’t sure, we weren’t sure about any of it. It’s very hard to verify a letter like this.”

I see Lorna’s body then, being hauled over the edge of the police boat’s gunwale. Our small con has given cover to a far bigger crime. Whoever killed Lorna is likely to have known her. Isn’t that what they always say about murders? It’s rarely a stranger? Whoever that person is now has an out. I will be called on to testify that there were anonymousbad actorsin pursuit of my family.

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