“Why?”
“Because your son shouldn’t pay for your mistake.”
Ray stood.
His legs shook.
Before he reached the door, I called after him.
“I don’t take the lives of men who have young children.”
He turned.
“I take their names. They last longer.”
That was the man I had been at noon.
By midnight, I had forgotten Ray Calder existed.
Snow had begun falling as my car passed through the gates of the estate.
I went upstairs, removed my coat, then stopped outside my mother’s bedroom.
The door was slightly open.
Her breathing machine maintained its steady rhythm.
Delia stood beside the bed adjusting a line.
I stepped forward.
Without turning, she said, “Wash your hands before you come in.”
I actually looked behind me.
No one else was there.
“You’re speaking to me?”
“Yes.”
There was no fear in her voice.
No attitude either.
Only concentration.
“Mrs. Moretti’s immune system is compromised.”
No one gave me orders in my own home.
Yet I walked to the bathroom.
And washed my hands.
Longer than necessary.
When I returned, Delia had repositioned my mother’s pillows.
She never mentioned the exchange again.
Several hours later, that same woman was lying among broken glass.
An ambulance arrived before two.
Celeste wanted to follow.
I stopped her.
“Stay here.”
She stared at me.
“Dante—”
“Stay.”
Her mouth remained slightly open.
Celeste Vandermark had never once failed to complete a sentence.
That frightened me more than the blood on the conservatory floor.
At the hospital, I waited inside the car while Matteo Greco went in.
Matteo had been with me since I was twenty-three.
There were very few people whose loyalty I did not question.
He was one.
When he returned, steam rose from his coat.
“They’re taking her for scans.”
I watched snow gather across the windshield.
Then I asked a question that suddenly made me ashamed.
“What is her name?”
Matteo glanced at me.
“Delia Marie Marlowe.”
He knew immediately.
The driver knew.
The gardener knew.
The housekeeper probably knew.
I didn’t.
Near sunrise, they allowed me into her room.
Delia sat against white pillows.
Two fingers were splinted.
A bandage covered the side of her head.
The first thing she said had nothing to do with Celeste.
“Your mother needs to be turned every two hours.”
I stared at her.
“Delia—”
“Her left shoulder has been getting worse. Put another pillow behind the scapula, not beneath the arm.”
“You were dragged across broken glass.”
“And your mother doesn’t become less dependent because I’m in a hospital.”
She continued giving instructions.
Medication.
Skin checks.
Fluid intake.
How much the window blinds should remain open because direct morning light bothered my mother’s eyes.
Only when she was finished did I sit down.
