Page 294 of Mario
It has been there since I parked. Since I stepped onto the path. Since I saw her sitting on this bench, looking exactly like a woman who knows how to make ordinary conversation sound like cross-examination.
I should leave.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
Cindy looks at me for a moment, then takes another slow sip of coffee.
“Your connection to Mario Conti.”
My pulse jumps.
“I did not say I had one.”
“No,” she says. “You very carefully avoided saying anything at all.”
“That does not mean—”
“It means you’re either connected to him, connected to someone close to him, or considering becoming connected to him in a way that makes Anna Conti’s death newly relevant to you.”
My mouth goes dry.
I look away first.
I hate that I do.
The park continues around us. A child laughs somewhere to my left. A dog barks. Leaves shift overhead.
“I’m not here to discuss my life,” I say.
“Then we may have a problem.”
My gaze returns to hers. “Why?”
“Because what I can tell you depends heavily on why you’re asking.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It’s cautious.” Her smile fades. “There is a difference.”
I study her.
She is not nervous exactly. But she is alert. Her eyes move occasionally, not wildly, not like a person afraid of being attacked, but like someone who has learned to note where people are standing, who is lingering, who is close enough to overhear.
“You said there was more,” I say.
“There was.”
“More what?”
“More smoke.”
My hands tighten once in my lap.
“Smoke is not fire.”
“No,” she says. “But it is usually not nothing.”
I breathe in slowly.
