“They won’t prosecute me,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual steel. “I know too many names.”

“Whitmore is already in custody,” Dominic said. “He talked within twenty minutes.”

The lawyer dropped his briefcase onto the wet ground and raised his hands.

Caterina looked at the tablet, then at the helicopter cabin.

The pilot was staring back at her through the glass, his hands hovering over the controls.

“Step away from the helicopter, Mrs. Valenti,” a voice boomed from a loudspeaker.

Two black federal SUVs rounded the corner of the hangar, their searchlights blinding us as they swept over the helipad.

Dominic didn’t look at the police.

He looked at me, a quiet, heavy sorrow in his eyes.

I saw the weight of five wasted years in his posture, the realization of what his mother’s ambition had cost us both.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, cold and wet from the rain.

I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t hold his hand either.

There was too much space between us, filled with the ghosts of the bookstore and the quiet nights I had spent raising Lucia alone.