Time was ticking by, and she was worried that her efforts to do things the children’s way had already failed. Cassie realized with a feeling of doom that creating an alternate version was far from simple. One slip-up was all it would take.
“Your bathroom’s opposite the bed. I’ll leave the door open and the light on so that you can find it in the night. Can I bring you any water, or a cup of tea?”
“No,” Nonna said.
Again, she gave Cassie a piercing, quizzical look that thoroughly unsettled her.
“I’ll check on you later,” Cassie promised, and closed the door.
Stressed to the point of tears, she sprinted back to her room. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror she stopped, aghast.
The blood in her hair had created a huge matted area, and had seeped down over her left ear and temple. She had a raw, fresh scratch down her cheek, and a scab and dark bruise on her cheekbone from the smack with the belt she’d received yesterday. Her hair was messy and her eyes were wild. Her neck was vivid crimson from the attempted strangling.
Cassie stared at herself in horror. She looked thoroughly guilty, as if she’d been embroiled in a vicious fight. This was how Nonna had seen her and might remember her.
She had no idea how she was going to make herself presentable before the police arrived.
Cassie stood under the shower and winced in agony as the water spattered over the raw gash on her scalp. The water ran red, then pink, and finally clear, even though the wound was still oozing blood.
Out of the shower, she parted her hair on the other side and brushed it across to cover the gash. Tears sprang to her eyes when she touched the stinging wound with her comb. She blow-dried her hair for a few minutes—even on low heat, this was scorching agony—until she was sure it would stay in place. She didn’t want to dry it any longer because according to their version, she had been in the shower when Ms. Rossi had fallen.
That also made it difficult to cover the scratch and bruise on her face. Nobody would put on makeup after their shower, so she needed to keep the camouflage subtle, so that the police would not notice it. In a panic, Cassie wondered if she should think up a different story for where she’d been—but it would only confuse the situation, and any story would have the same holes. Lying and covering up wasn’t easy and Cassie became increasingly certain that she was going to be found out.
The dark bruise took a lot of makeup to cover, and Cassie applied some to her other cheek so that they looked the same color. She made a mental note not to touch her face, because this concealer would smudge easily and then the bruise would show through.
Her neck was a bigger problem because the redness hadn’t faded. Cassie saw that the individual finger marks could actually be seen.
She’d packed her gear, but now it was time to unpack. Cassie threw her belongings out of the bag, searching for the only garment she possessed that might cover this up—a polo-necked cream-colored top.
Pulling it on and looking anxiously in the mirror, she was relieved that this concealed the worst of the evidence.
She went and checked on the children. Nina and Venetia had finished the clean-up, and the upstairs corridor looked pristine, as if their version had been the correct one all along. They were both in Venetia’s room, huddled together on her bed, and they looked at her anxiously when she opened the door.
“I’m calling the police now,” Cassie said.
She headed for the phone, feeling sick with nerves.
It was only when she had already dialed, and the call had been answered, that she remembered just because the local police had been bribed or “encouraged” to ignore the abuse, didn’t mean they hadn’t known it was happening.
Of course they would treat the death as suspicious.
Their first, and immediate, suspect would be Cassie herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Detective Francesca Falcone had just concluded a team meeting when the call came through.
It was from an area in the south of Milan where her unit didn’t usually operate, but there had been an armed robbery and shooting at a nearby supermarket earlier that evening, and every officer from the local department was on the scene. Therefore, the call-out was rerouted to them.
She checked the brief. Accidental death. Ms. Rossi, a woman in her forties, had fallen down a flight of stairs and died. It had been called in by a young woman, foreign sounding, English speaking, who was a worker at the home.
Falcone knew this might be a routine case, but when a young and otherwise healthy person died in a home “accident,” there was always the possibility foul play was involved.
“Can you get the equipment we need? I’ll bring the car round,” she said to her two junior team members, before sprinting out of the office.
Two minutes later, they were on the road, with the junior detective radioing the coroner while Falcone drove.
The house was in an affluent neighborhood, and guarded by a tall, wrought iron gate. There was no need to ring the bell, because a young woman was waiting behind the gate, huddled in an old jacket, with the hood pulled over her head.
As soon as she saw the car arrive she buzzed the gate open and directed the team up the driveway.
Falcone climbed out of the car.
“Good evening,” she greeted the woman.
“G-good evening.”
“I’m Detective Falcone.” She held out her hand, noticing to her surprise that the other woman flinched when she said the word “detective.”
“I’m Cassie Vale.”
Her hand was ice cold, and trembling visibly.
“Can you please show me where the body is?” Falcone asked. Stopping outside the front door, she put on protective
