Page 81 of Saltwater

The officer seems to notice, too, because he says, “Of course we have other footage. This was just the first we came across. We are still working through the rest. There are more cameras than you think in Italy.”

“When they work,” my uncle says.

No one acknowledges his comment, but of course the officers know it’s true. How many nonfunctional cameras litter the streets of any place in the world, how many are just for show.

“So none of you recognize this man,” the officer says.

“I do hope you find him,” my uncle says.

“May I take a look?” Naomi says. She has been leaning up against the wall, behind the fray, observing.

The way she says it is slow, as if the labor required to move her lips is overwhelming in the summer heat. She holds out a hand, and it’s quick, but I catch Marcus giving her a look. It’s only a moment, but it’s there. A question that she doesn’t answer.

The officer moves to the corner where Naomi has stationed herself and passes her the photograph. She examines it, holds it by her thumb and middle finger. And through the fog that follows Naomi on this island, I watch something flicker in her eyes. Recognition. I don’t know if anyone else has seen it, but I’m certain Naomi knows who it is in the photograph.

Even so, she passes it back to the officer and says nothing, her lips slack. I can see the tips of her teeth. Her pink tongue darts out, obsessively wets her lips, retreats.

I want to take her aside and say,Who is it?But then, how often have I thought I recognized someone since arriving on the island—Lorna, my mother, Ciro—only to discover I was wrong? Recognition is a funny thing—we often mistake those we know best, their faces so familiar they become like ciphers.

“Well.” The officer rejoins his colleagues, folds the paper in half. “We haven’t only come with this.” He opens his notebook and flips a few pages in, the gesture deliberate. He’s enjoying himself. “We also got word from the medical examiner this morning. The cause of death was drowning, not blunt force trauma. But that wasn’t the surprise—the surprise was that Lorna was four, maybe five weeks pregnant. Very early, of course, but a routine blood test—”

Drowning.I see Lorna in the water, holding me under in an attempt to hold herself up.

He pauses, flips through his notes again.

The pregnancy test I saw in Lorna’s room falls into place. I didn’t imagine it. Someone in the house took it.

“The medical examiner is optimistic, however, that we will be able to gather fetal cells and identify who the father of the child wouldhave been. Did any of you know Lorna to have a boyfriend? Perhaps someone who might have been jealous? Who would have the means to travel here?”

At this, he looks around the foyer, as if to emphasize the luxury of it all, the vaulted ceilings and the fact the simple arches are inlaid with decorative tile. Even the flowers seem to nod in agreement with his assessment. Yes, people like us can travel great distances for revenge.

“Maybe Helen can tell you?” my uncle says.

They turn to look at me, the entire group. But Lorna and I never talked about men. Not about Freddy or Ciro. Not about anyone she was seeing. Not about Stan. Looking back, there’s so much we never talked about. And maybe if we had been more honest, she would be here now.

“She never mentioned anyone,” I say.

My father catches my eye before I look back at the officer, and it’s the funny thing about families—how much can be said without sound. He thinks I’m protecting them. But I’m not.

The officer straightens his shirt, clears his throat. “We still have your DNA on file from the unfortunate accident with your wife, many decades ago. We kept that.”

He seems pleased with this revelation, as if he always knew the police would be back here, at this villa.

He was right.

“We will be testing that DNA against the fetal cells. And would the rest of you”—he looks at Freddy now—“be willing to give a sample?”

Freddy hesitates, his mouth opens and closes without anything coming out, but finally he manages, “Whatever you need.”

“No one,” Marcus says, “will be doing anything until we receive advice from counsel. And I highly doubt our 1992 samples have been stored in immaculate conditions.”

The officer seems to deflate, his bluff called. If they have the DNA, it’s unlikely to be the type to hold up in court.

From counsel.I realize, although perhaps I should have alwaysknown, that Bud must have been part of the investigation thirty years ago. His age makes it possible. My family has always liked continuity.

It was probably to Bud that they took the necklace earlier. When they met with him about the money. I’m happy to let them think that part of it, at least, is real.

Marcus doesn’t answer the officer’s question; he holds open his hand in the direction of the door—Please show yourselves out.

---