Bloodhound

Chapter Four

A NAME IN INK

Rosa turned the photograph over in her hands a few times. Then she checked the back.

There was writing there. Old and faded, but she could still read it. A woman’s handwriting in blue ink.

Chiara. Sempre.

Chiara. Always.

She didn’t know the name. She looked up at Vincent. He was watching her the same way he had since he gave her the photo. Like he knew she would find the writing and was just waiting for her to ask.

“Who is she?”

“I think that’s a question for Enzo,” Vincent said.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” He didn’t sound sorry, “I told you what I could, The rest is his to tell.”

Riley had been quiet. He reached over and took the photo of her carefully. He looked at the woman standing next to his father. Something moved across his face. She couldn’t tell what it was.

“I’ve never seen this,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of my dad this young.”

“You don’t know her either?”

“No.” He gave the photo back slower than he took it. “But I want to.”

They found Enzo in a room at the back of the house. It didn’t look much like an office. More like a place he went to when he needed to be alone with hard decisions. Bookshelves covered one wall. A lamp was on even though it was still daylight outside. He looked up when they came in. His eyes went straight to the photograph in her hand.

His face didn’t change. That felt worse somehow.

“Where did you get that?”

“Vincent,” Rosa said. “Don’t be mad at him. I asked.”

“I’m not mad.” Enzo’s voice stayed calm, the same way it had in her father’s house that morning. “I’m just wondering how long you planned to keep it from her.”

“You weren’t going to tell her,” Vincent said. He kept his voice quiet but he didn’t look away. “Someone had to.”

Enzo stood up. He walked over to the window instead of toward them. His hands stayed loose at his sides. No one spoke for a while.

“Who is Chiara?” Rosa asked again.

“She was your father’s sister.”

The words felt strange. Like they didn’t fit.

“I don’t have an aunt.”

“You did,” Enzo said. “She died before you were born. Your father never talks about her. I don’t think he ever told you she existed.”

“Then why is she standing next to you in a photo from before I was born?”

Enzo turned away from the window. For the first time that day, she saw something on his face that wasn’t careful or closed off. It looked like he was tired.

“Because I loved her,” he said. “And your father has hated me for it every day since she died.”

The room went quiet.

Riley looked between his father and Rosa. He seemed like he was trying to figure out if this was something everyone already knew or something brand new. From his face, Rosa guessed it was new.

“So the whole history of our families,” Rosa said, “the reason my father has hated you my entire life, is about a woman?”

“It’s about what happened to her,” Enzo’s voice got quieter. “Your father thinks I got her killed. He’s believed that for twenty-six years. Nothing I’ve said has ever changed his mind.”

“Did you?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it wasn’t a clear no.

“I made choices that put her in danger. Whether that means I killed her depends on how much blame someone is willing to take for another person’s choice.” He looked straight at her. “Your father never forgave me. I don’t expect you to either once you know everything.”

“Then tell me everything.”

“Not today.”

“You keep saying that. Not today. Not in the car. Not in front of other people. When do I get the real story instead of pieces?”

“When I’m sure telling you won’t get killed faster than the people already looking for you,” Enzo said. His voice got sharper. “Your father spent three weeks trying to protect you from something he thought would break you. I’m not going to undo that in one afternoon just because you’re angry at me for being careful.”

Rosa opened her mouth to argue. The words didn’t come.

Riley cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “this is the most my dad has said about any of this in my whole life. That’s either good or awful. I can’t tell which.”

No one laughed, but the air in the room felt a little less tight.

Vincent stepped forward and took the photograph from Rosa’s hand. He turned it over and looked at the writing again.

“Chiara,” he said quietly. “I haven’t heard that name in this house in years.”

“You know her?” Rosa asked.

“I knew of her. I was young when it happened. Most of what I know came from things people didn’t quite say in front of me.” He looked up. His face had that focused look he got when he was working something out. “But I remember one thing clearly. Chiara didn’t die the way most people around here die.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was never a body,” Vincent said. “Only a funeral.”

The words sat heavy in the room.

Enzo’s face went stiff. For the first time all day, he looked truly thrown, not by Rosa’s questions but by what Vincent had just said.

“That’s not something we talk about,” Enzo said, low.

“With respect,” Vincent said, “I think it might be exactly what we need to talk about.”

Rosa looked between them. The photograph suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“If there was nobody,” she said ,"then how does anyone know she's really dead?"