And then suddenly everything did stop, startled by a roar so loud it drove every other sound out of the air. No footsteps at the end of the dock, no soft moan as Rosa’s face went slack with surprise, no boats creaking or buoy bells out on the lagoon. The world turned silent. Rosa slumped and fell over. Claudia lowered the gun, shoulders drooping, and looked at it dumbly, as if it had gone off by itself, all without a sound, happening somewhere quiet, out of reach. Then air started rushing back into my eardrums. How do you explain this one? Another body. Claudia with a gun in her hand.

I stepped forward, putting myself between Claudia and Rosa’s body. I heard footsteps again. No time. But there had to be some way, one last alibi. Claudia was staring at me, still in the quiet place.

“Listen to me. Shoot me,” I said.

She blinked.

“Here,” I said, touching my shoulder. “Then put Rosa’s gun in her hand. She tried to kill us, but I got her before she could shoot again. Understand? Put the gun in her hand. I had to shoot back. Here.” I touched my shoulder again. “Do it.”

“Shoot you,” she said vaguely, as if she were trying to translate.

“Just do it,” I said, almost growling. “Quick. It’s a chance.”

“Yes,” she said, still vague, but raising her hand.

I looked down at the gun, followed it up until it was pointed at my chest.

“Here,” I said, touching my shoulder again, and in that second I saw what she must have seen too, that the shoulder was only a chance but the heart could be the end of it, the story they would believe, Rosa’s forcing us out onto the lagoon, my grabbing Moretti’s gun, her shooting me as I fired it, both dead. Only Claudia alive. Free of all of us, the bullet finally stopped.

I looked at her, eyes steady, no expression at all. I’ll survive you too. The only thing that matters when no one is watching. My throat felt thick, closing up. Maybe this was the only part that was true—not the hotel near the station, slick with sweat; not the ball, fingering the necklace, excited in spite of ourselves; not the magistrate’s office, solemn in Bertie’s corsage, or afterward, looking up at the high windows to find her father. Instead I saw her face as she brought down the stone on Gianni’s head, saw a hand come out from under the bed with a knife—wasn’t it possible? Who would blame her? Who would blame her now? One second and it was done, no longer than it had taken to silence Rosa. She moved her hand a little, taking aim. I could flinch now, duck, somehow break the trance between us before she could fire. But then I’d never know. Never know what was left. And I realized suddenly that I wouldn’t move, that it was worth my life to know. The one thing in it that mattered, the rest just sleepwalking.

“Do it,” I said, almost whispering.

She looked at me, her eyes moving now, harried.

“The shoulder,” I hissed. “That’s the story.”

No sound but the blood in my head. I glanced down at her hand, waiting for the finger to move.

“Brava,” a voice said, stepping out of the dark, the white sling visible before his face.

Claudia turned, the gun still pointing at me, but her eyes fixed now behind me. Cavallini walked over.

“Excellent. Except for the bullets—they would match. Two people shot with the same gun? Even the police would notice.”

He took the gun from her, too stunned now to move, quiet again. The others waited behind, only partly visible on the dock.

“Rosa,” he said, shaking his head as he walked over to her, stepping past Moretti. “How did you say? She forced you to take out the boat.” He paused. “After we had left, of course. It would be embarrassing otherwise.” He touched the body with his toe, pushing it slightly, then jumped back when it moved, a twitch that might have been a reflex but then happened again, still alive. “Stronzo.” Angry now, glancing up at Claudia, annoyed. Still alive. He looked quickly toward the dock, then pointed the gun down and fired into Rosa’s chest, close. Her body jerked from the force of it.

“It’s all right!” he shouted before the others could rush up from the dock like startled birds.

I stared at the body, absolutely still now.

He squatted and patted her sides with his good arm until he found her gun, then got up and turned back to us, aiming it.

“She would have used this gun, yes? Now the bullets don’t match when you shoot each other.”

He raised it, and I blew out some air, surprised, almost a laugh, because I knew it must be a joke until I looked at his eyes, dark pools, like the canal water, showing nothing underneath.

“Don’t,” Claudia said, and then all I heard was a roar again, covering everything, even my own gasp, as something slammed into me, a piece of fire, burning flesh, and I fell back, knocked over by the wind, the rush of something I couldn’t hear, and felt the sharp pain as I hit the pavement, a crunch I couldn’t hear either, just felt, another jagged piece of fire, red then black, everything dark, and then no sound at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I woke up in Gianni’s hospital with a throbbing in my shoulder. Claudia was standing staring out the window, and for a moment I saw her back on the pier, her body still, looking down at Rosa. What Cavallini had seen too, the gun dangling at her side. But we were here, both of us, no bars on the window, everything crisp white.

“Can you see San Michele?” I said, my voice raspy.

She turned. “You’re awake,” she said, then stopped, hesitant, fingering the opening at her collar.

“The cemetery,” I said, prompting. “It’s bad luck.”

She shook her head. “Not from here. Just the canal.”

“So I’ll live.”

“Does it hurt? They said it would, when you woke up. They’ll give you something for it.” She started toward the door, eager to be doing something.

“In a minute. Tell me first.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. What time is it?”

“Morning. Here, have some water.” She held a glass to my mouth, playing nurse. “They said after today the pain is less. There’s no danger.”

“No, tell me—where’s Cavallini?”

“Somewhere,” she said, waving her hand. “He has a statement for you to sign.” She pointed to a paper on the night table.

“A statement,” I said, trying to make sense of it.

“About what happened. To Rosa.”

Falling forward, her surprised face. I felt the heat spread through my shoulder again—not just pain, memory.

“And the boy,” I said. Another innocent. Moretti. Rosa. Maybe even Gianni, killed for just doing business.

“The boy they know—there were witnesses in the train yards.”

I nodded, the movement setting off another rush of pain in my shoulder.

“A confession,” I said, tired, wanting to slip back into sleep.

Claudia looked at me. “No. Do you want me to read it to you? It’s in Italian.”

“Just tell me.”

“What you said. Rosa forced us to take her in the boat. Then, when we got there, she tried to kill us—leave no witnesses—but you managed to get Moretti’s gun and shoot back.”

“And save us.”

“Yes,” she said. “And save us.”

“From Rosa.”

She said nothing.

“And then Cavallini came. After she was dead. Is that it?”

She looked at me. “Yes. And then it’s over.”

“If we lie for him.”

She picked up the paper. “We have to sign it. It’s what he wants.”

“And make Rosa what?” I turned my head toward the window, a blank sky. They’d both be over on San Michele now, being cut open and drained. “Then what happens?”

“Then it’s finished.”

“And we go away,” I said in a monotone, the practiced response.

She bit her lip. “No, me. I go to Paris, to your mother. So it looks right. It was his idea. It’s family, so no one would think—”

“Who cares what they think?”

“He does. He wants everything to look all right.” Worked out, the last story.