“My father used to say I have hot blood.”
“Sangue bollente, we say here.” He smiled, though his eyes remained dull.
The words sounded familiar. She thought her mother might have used boiling blood to describe Stella’s temper. “Still no murder weapon?”
“No, though the medical examiner will tell us about the characteristics of the knife. Which will help the search.”
“I really think—”
“The bread lame, yes I know. You’ve said it already.”
Stella felt herself bristle, but at the softness in his eyes gazing steadily into her own, her defensiveness shattered. She turned her attention back to the bakery door, contemplating her next move. She felt his eyes still on her, as if trying to decide something.
Finally, he said, “Stella, I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
Her eyes fixed on the forno, s
