The Faces of Angels by Lucretia Grindle Page B

isn’t even back yet, and I should wait out here. But the food’s getting cold and the bags aren’t that great. They already feel like the bottom might drop out of them, and I don’t want to be stuck with a pile of noodles at my feet, so I figure What the hell? And punch myself into the apartment too.
    The lights are on, and the first thing I notice is Pierangelo’s overcoat thrown across the sofa. So he is here, somewhere. Probably in the shower. I go into the kitchen, study the Ferrari-like stove, turn the oven on to warm, and stick the food in. Then I listen. At first I think I’m hearing the radio, but no, it’s Pierangelo’s voice, raised and angry and coming from the study.
    The apartment is L-shaped, the master bedroom, bathroom and living room in the long front wing, kitchen in the corner, a utility room and hallway leading down the short arm, where the girls’ bedrooms look onto the side alley, and, opposite them, Piero’s study looks over the inner courtyard. Good manners demand I should go find a magazine, or hang around humming and pretending I can’t hear, but I’ve literally never heard Pierangelo angry before, and I’m curious, so I sidle into the utility room and hover beside the washing machine and linen closet. Then I step into the hall. The study door’s ajar, and now I can hear Piero clearly. My Italian has improved, and I get that he’s arguing, hard. Something about the police. Then I hear the word mostro , monster. There’s no answering voice, so he must be on the phone.
    â€˜What do we start if we start this?’ he says. ‘This girl, and then after her, how many? I don’t know how long you want to cover their asses.’
    There’s a pause, and I’m not aware of it, but I must have stepped forward, because I can see Piero’s shoulders, the back of his head. He senses me, swings his desk chair around, and pulls the door open.
    â€˜Yeah, yeah,’ Pierangelo says to whoever he’s talking to. His eyes meet mine. ‘I get that,’ he adds. ‘I just think it’s a lousy idea. We’re not in the business of covering up. For anyone.’ He listens again for a second and then nods. ‘OK. OK. I do see the point. I just don’t agree.’ His voice drops, indicating either acquiescence or defeat. ‘Well, fine. But you know what I think,’ he adds. ‘ Certo . Ciao .’
    Pierangelo puts the phone down and sighs. His eyes are on me, but mine are on the long, polished expanse of his desk. Photos of the girl they found by the Arno, Ginevra Montelleone, are splayed across it like playing cards.
    â€˜She didn’t commit suicide, did she?’ I ask.
    â€˜No,’ he says. ‘No, she did not.’
    Pierangelo looks at me for a second. Then he begins to gather up the photos and slide them into an envelope. I feel a sudden wave of irritation.
    â€˜For Christ’s sake, Pierangelo! I won’t go to pieces, you know!’
    He stops, his hands in mid-motion. ‘I know,’ he says, ‘it’s just—’
    He doesn’t like talking about this kind of thing with me, and he’s not alone. I’ve noticed this in other people, too. Back home in the States, the ones who didn’t want me to write or talk endlessly about what happened to me seemed to feel they couldn’t mention the words death, attack, kill, or murder in my presence. Some even struggled over saying knife. I know it was well intended but, frankly, it really pissed me off, just like this is pissing me off now. Between Billy’s pop-up priests and Pierangelo suddenly treating me as if I’m made of glass, it’s turning out to be a really crappy evening.
    â€˜Look,’ I say with more force than is probably strictly necessary, ‘I was attacked two years ago. And it was terrible. But every awful thing that happens to someone else does not threaten my