As we walked out, my phone vibrated. Unknown number, one line: Next door. Roof.
Elena, or Renzo. Either way, another page.
“Up or out?” I asked.
“Up,” Emilia said.
~ ~ ~
The external ladder was slick with last night’s dew. We climbed anyway. On the roof, heat had already woken the tar. The city stretched in grids and old brick. At the far edge, Renzo stood with his hands in his pockets, coat open to the morning.
“You were supposed to be at the office,” Emilia said.
“I was supposed to be a lot of things,” he said. “This is cleaner.”
He nodded toward a skylight where a pane sat cracked, taped with an X. “He wanted you to do this at night. He’s not himself in daylight.”
“Who’s ‘he’ today,” I asked.
Renzo looked at me with that patient amusement he used when we both knew the answer.
