The Sacred Cut

He picked up the roll of negatives. “I’ll get you a copy.”

“OK. That’s not to say there won’t be the opportunity, by the way,” she added.

“The opportunity for what?”

“For us to get to know each other. I’ve made a decision. I’m going to go back to college. Get my master’s degree. Here, in Rome. Why not?”

“To do what?”

“Finish learning how to draw buildings. Then learn how to create them. It’s called being an architect. It’s what I should have done all along.”

This was all so sudden. “When?”

“As soon as I can get in,” she said with a shrug. “There’s nothing keeping me in the States, really. I need the change, too. Now. I keep thinking about what happened. Not the details, the reasons. All those people breaking their backs over some stupid convictions. My dad and Thornton Fielding. Joel Leapman. They all thought-no, they knew-they were doing the right thing. And look where it got us. I’m sick of certainties, for a while anyway. I want to get a few doubts back in my life. Besides…”

She paused, trying to make sure this was clear to herself too, he thought.

“My dad’s dead and buried now,” she went on calmly. “He wasn’t before, and I just didn’t want to face that fact. I’m not proud of what I found out about him. But he was still my dad. There was still a part of him that always loved me. I’ve got this relationship with him right now. I-”

Her voice did falter then.

“Last night, I cried and cried and cried. I lay in bed in that soulless little apartment and let it all out. Just me, a very wet pillow, a resignation letter and some memories. Everything ended then, Nic. All this fake existence I’ve been trying to lead on someone else’s behalf. You know something?”

This puzzled her. The doubt, not something he was accustomed to seeing in her face, was obvious.

“In my head I kind of talked to him. I felt he understood. Nic, your dad’s dead: tell me, is that crazy?”

Emily was always astonishing him. She just came straight to the point, never minced words. He’d grown up in this farmhouse. He’d watched his father turn from youth to middle age, to a sick, frail, prematurely elderly cripple. He knew what she was talking about.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“All the things you never got round to when he was alive. About how you never appreciated the good times as much as you should have. How the bad always seemed worse than they really were. And how the time came when you weren’t a kid anymore. When you had to cut the cord, however painful that would be on both sides.”

Costa didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have conversations like this. Not with anyone.

“You didn’t answer me, Nic.”

“Did you feel better? After?”

She gri

He slipped Mauro’s photo back into the folder; the little photographer’s words rang in his ears.

“I know that feeling,” he said.

“My,” she murmured, “that was hard.”

“Where will you stay?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

“That’s the first on my list of doubts. I’ve no idea.”

Nic Costa was aware he was blushing and wondered how much it showed. “This is not… something you need answer quickly. It’s nothing more than a thought. No strings. Take it or leave it.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

“As you’ve noticed… I have this huge house. You can use the studio. Or use one of the bedrooms if you like. No strings. It’s up to you.”

She thought about it. “No strings. That means rent.”

He waved a nervous hand. “Of course. Rent. And there’s no rush. Just think about it.”

“OK.”

“And…” He was stuttering. His cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

She screwed up her face, looked into his eyes and asked, “Are you sure you’re Italian?”

“Just… no strings. No need for a quick decision. Tell me whenever you feel like it.”

“Nic!” Her voice bounced around the dusty room, echoing from the corners. “I have thought about it. I said OK. OK means yes. I would love to stay here for a while. Do a little dusting. See how everything works out. It would be a… pleasure.”

The blue eyes bore into him, amused, mischievous.

“Just one thing,” she added.

It took a little while to get the word out. “Yes?”

She walked up to him, spread the fingers of her hand across the base of his neck and reached round, gently stroking his nape, sending electric shivers up and down his spine.

“Can we please sleep together before I start paying rent? Because if it happened after I would find it very freaky indeed.”

“PURDAH? Where the fu-”

Peroni’s eye caught Laila, who was looking shocked at the sudde

“Where the hell is Purdah?” he demanded. “It’s in the north, isn’t it? They’re trying to get me to quit. They know I hate those miserable bastards up there.”

“Gia

“A figure of speech,” Emily Deacon interjected.

“Quite,” Teresa agreed.

Peroni waved a big, angry arm at Leo Falcone. “So where’s this figure of speech when it’s at home? Will someone tell me that?”

Nic Costa didn’t like the expression Falcone was wearing. It was sly. Amused. And the inspector wasn’t saying a damn thing.

“Just a minute,” Nic said, pointing a finger at Falcone. “This is off duty. You’ve eaten my food. You’ve drunk my wine. Today, of all days, I have the right to call you Leo. Understood?”

Nothing but a frown on the long, intelligent face.

“So what’s going on?” Costa demanded.

Falcone took a deep breath. “As I was attempting to explain before the volcano exploded, there is news. I have spoken with the Questura. And others.”

He fell silent, pointed to a bottle on the coffee table, smiled with approval, motioned for the others to pick up the glasses he’d brought in from the kitchen.

“This is champagne,” Falcone a

“We don’t want to talk about the wine, Leo,” Teresa Lupo growled, snatching a mouthful of liquid bubbles. “Facts, if you please.”

“Facts,” Falcone agreed. “The news is that Moretti will retire immediately. Filippo Viale the same. There will be no criminal prosecutions, no further investigations. The matter will drop, which is for the best. Kaspar will be tried in Italy, naturally, and plead guilty, which should diminish the publicity somewhat. And…”

He eyed Costa and Peroni. “And we three are going into purdah.”

“Will you stop saying that?” Peroni roared. “For how long?”

“A little while.”

Costa knew these games. “Is that a short little while or a long little while?”

Falcone considered this. “Probably nearer to long. We have to let things blow over a bit.”

“Shit!” Peroni had his eyes screwed shut and was chanting a little refrain that ran, “Please don’t make it in the north, please don’t make it in the north, please…”

Falcone listened, cool and detached, in silence.

“Where, Leo?” the big man bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

“ Venice,” Falcone answered, with no emotion whatsoever.

Nic Costa blinked. Emily had slipped her arm through his. She was coming to Rome. She was going to live under his roof. And he’d be on the other side of Italy, watching the grey lagoon ebb and flow, alone.

“I love Venice,” Emily said, and squeezed his arm. “It’s not so far…”

Teresa Lupo asked, “Am I going?”

“No,” Falcone replied, looking faintly shocked at the idea. “This is a police matter. What’s it to do with you?”

“Oh, nothing. Venice?” She was trying to remember something. “I’ve only been there once. Got drunk after a rugby match in Padua. I don’t recall a lot, to be honest. But…”