Chapter 3
I had worked in the estate for three years and had never seen a photograph of Lorenzo laughing.
“Put me on the bed,” he said.
“We need to check the supplies first.”
“The mattress is clean beneath the cover.”
“You know that?”
“My father built this room after the family war in 1998.”
“You were thirteen.”
“Fourteen.”
“You remember a great deal.”
“I remember what kept people alive.”
I removed the dusty cover.
The sheet beneath smelled faintly of cedar and age but appeared dry.
We lowered him.
Emma placed the rabbit beside his head.
“Bunny stays.”
Lorenzo looked at the toy’s missing eye.
“Is he qualified?”
“He is very brave.”
“Then I am fortunate.”
The answer came naturally.
That was the first moment I understood he was not speaking to her as a performance.
He was trying to keep her calm.
I searched the metal boxes.
One held water-purification tablets.
Another contained medical supplies: gauze, sterile pads, antiseptic, tape, saline, sutures, emergency blankets, and antibiotics long past expiration.
The dressings were vacuum-sealed.
Usable.
I looked at Lorenzo.
“Who shot you?”
His eyes closed.
“A man I raised.”
“Is he controlling the house now?”
“Not alone.”
“Who is helping him?”
Lorenzo did not answer.
His breathing changed.
“Stay awake.”
“I am awake.”
“Open your eyes.”
He did.
“Name.”
His expression sharpened.
“What?”
“Your name.”
“You know it.”
“I need to know whether you do.”
“Lorenzo Alessandro Duca.”
“Date.”
“October seventeenth.”
“Year.”
He answered correctly.
May you like
“Where are you?”
“Under my own laundry wing, apparently.”
