The day my father died.
And underneath it, four words.
Ask who buried him.
I picked up the bill.
The paper felt damp beneath my fingers, though I could not tell whether that came from his glass or my hands.
“Clara.”
Marco was beside the register.
“Table four.”
I looked toward the door.
Victor Sloane had disappeared into the rain.
“Did you hear what he said?”
Marco’s expression barely changed.
“Customers say things.”
“He knew where my mother lives.”
That made him glance toward the stairs.
Only for a second.
Then he reached for the tray.
“Take a minute. I’ll send Nina.”
I did not take a minute.
I went upstairs.
Enzo was on the telephone when I entered.
He looked at me, then at the bill in my hand.
“I’ll call you back.”
He ended the conversation.
“What happened?”
I placed the twenty on his desk.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your customer.”
“Sloane?”
I nodded.
“He asked whether my mother still lives on Hawthorne Street.”
Enzo stood.
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He told me to ask who buried my father.”
Enzo’s hand stopped above the telephone.
It was small.
Almost nothing.
But I had spent three months watching people decide what to tell their boss.
I recognized a pause that came before an edited answer.
“You know something.”
He looked at me.
“Your father’s name.”
It was not a question.
I stepped back.
“Daniel Bennett.”
Enzo closed his eyes briefly.
