by Blake Pierce
Nina must be in shock, Cassie decided. Probably she had not taken in what had happened and was reflexively suggesting that they tidy up.
“We can’t do that. It’s not just us, you see. We have to call the police,” Cassie said, her voice high and breathy.
Now the girls exchanged another troubled glance.
“The police must not know that we were fighting with Mama,” Nina said. “Perhaps we should not call them at all.”
“You have to call the police when someone has died, or you get into terrible trouble,” Cassie explained, although she knew there was no way to avoid the trouble that would explode into her life after she made that call.
Nina shook her head.
“Then we must not tell them everything that happened. If we say there was a fight, they will be angry, and might put us in jail. Mama warned us about that. I do not want to go to jail so I think we must tidy up.”
Venetia nodded.
“Mama always said, ‘You must tell the police it was an accident and you fell from your horse. You must tell them everything is OK and nothing is wrong.’”
To Cassie’s astonishment, the two girls continued in unison, as if these were instructions they had memorized.
“You must say the same thing every time they ask, and must not change what you say. Even if they ask you in a different way, because they are trying to trick you.”
They looked at each other solemnly as if to confirm this was correct.
Nina added, in helpful tones, “We can all tell the police Mama tripped and fell.”
Cassie’s head spun. Their mother’s strategy was clear. Lie to the police, or else. This might even have happened in the past, and now the children were automatically repeating the lines they had been taught.
This was far more serious than covering up a beating. This was a death—murder.
And she was an adult, not a child who had been misinformed about the correct processes to follow.
Cassie started shaking all over again as she thought about the consequences. The police would come. For better or worse, she would have to call them and answer their questions when they arrived. Ms. Rossi was not an ordinary person but the owner of a massive fashion empire. Her death would be closely investigated.
What would she choose?
Would it be a full and honest disclosure of the fight that had taken place and her own involvement in that horrific fall?
Or would it be the scenario that the girls themselves had suggested?
Rewrite the past, erase the conflict. Tidy up and pretend that it had been a terrible accident, a misjudged fall, the snapping of that fine, silver heel causing the woman to plummet to her death.
Cassie took a deep breath.
She didn’t think it was right to cover it up. In fact, she thought it was insane—a risky move that if it was discovered, would land her in far more trouble than telling the truth. But at least it gave her a chance.
If she confessed to the fight, and said that she had been standing at the top of the stairs, and had pushed Ms. Rossi down, she would undoubtedly be charged with murder. That was a deliberate act and she had made the choice to do it.
She would spend weeks or months in prison and how would she be able to afford a defense lawyer who could make her version of events hold up against the legal juggernaut that the Rossi empire would set in motion? The accompanying media storm would make her famous for all the wrong reasons.
Cassie knew that very few people were aware of the children’s abuse, and those who knew were not willing to speak out. The local police had been bribed to ignore complaints, and social services had been bought off. In the eyes of the world, Ms. Rossi had been the perfect mother and that meant Cassie would automatically be perceived as the culprit, who had started a violent physical fight and then shoved an innocent woman to her death.
Then there was the girls’ future to think of. The scandal that would result from a murder verdict would traumatize them more badly, and for longer, than if everyone agreed it had been a tragic accident.
Her entire life was at stake. The decision she made now would affect her, and the children, forever. And she had to make it instantly, because every moment counted.
“Let’s tidy up,” she told the two girls.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The girls set about the job of cleaning the mess in a methodical way and Cassie followed their lead. Nina picked up the larger fragments of the smashed vase, while Venetia fetched a dustpan and brush.
Cassie felt oddly dissociated, as if she was somewhere far away, watching herself go about this task. If she thought too hard about the reality of what she was doing, she knew she would panic and freeze, and be unable to continue.
Deliberately tampering with a crime scene was a highly illegal act that would get her into a world of trouble if it was ever found out. A murdered woman lay downstairs. They should have called the police immediately. Now, it was too late. As she brushed crumbs of porcelain into the plastic dustpan, Cassie knew she had no choice but to follow through with the decision she’d made.
After the splinters had been swept up, they walked along the corridor, scanning the tiles for any signs of a fight.
Venetia picked up a hank of long, dark hair. Nina must have torn it from Ms. Rossi’s scalp during the vicious attack that Cassie now realized might have saved her life. She hadn’t believed the woman would stop strangling her, and thought she would have continued until she’d choked the life out of Cassie’s body.
Most probably, if Cassie had died, she would be clearing the scene in just the same way, forcing the children to help her, and disposing of her body somehow. Perhaps the ever-willing Maurice would have organized for a “drainage trench” to be dug in the garden, while Ms. Rossi dumped Cassie’s car somewhere far away.
Thinking of that alternate scenario made Cassie feel better, and stronger.
They had survived. At least, when all was said and done, they were still alive. Many people who got on the wrong side of an abuser were not so fortunate.
But when she remembered that the police still had to come, and that this death of a high-profile businesswoman would be closely investigated, Cassie felt sick with horror all over again.
It would have been safer to leave the scene untouched and to plead that she didn’t remember.
But if the police realized that such a vicious physical fight had occurred Cassie knew that they would not accept the loss of memory and would try to piece together themselves what had taken place. They would realize that she, and perhaps the children, had been involved in the fight, but as the only adult, Cassie would bear the brunt of the consequences.
Venetia pointed out a spot of blood on the tiles.
“I’ll wipe it up. You have blood in your hair, too,” she told Cassie.
Gingerly, Cassie touched her scalp. It was raw agony, and her fingers came away red.
“I’ll wash my hair now,” she said.
“Perhaps you should tell the police that you were in the bathroom when Mama fell,” Nina suggested, and Cassie reeled all over again at her cool logic.
“I was in the bathroom,” she agreed. “I’d just had a shower, while you girls spent some time with your mama, and I came running when I heard you scream.”
“We were going to have tiramisu with Nonna,” Venetia volunteered.
Cassie stopped in her tracks, her spine contracting with horror.
In the turmoil of events, she’d completely forgotten about the elderly lady, now ensconced in the secluded bedroom down the corridor. Nonna had been waiting for her daughter to share tiramisu with her. Now she would have to be told she was dead.
Cassie knew there was no way she’d be able to break this news. She was already an emotional wreck, and there was a very real risk she’d say the wrong thing if Nonna was coherent and started to ask questions. This was a job for the police. For now, she would try to remain as calm as she could, and put the elderly lady quietly to bed before calling them.
But when Cassie tapped on the open bedroom door and walked in, she saw the room was empty.
“Nonna?” she called softly. Her voice was still hoarse from the strangling she’d endured earlier. There was no reply.
Where could the old lady have gone? Back to the dining room, perhaps?
Terrified that she’d already waited too long to call the police, and that they would realize there had been a delay when they examined the body, Cassie ran to the dining room, hoping to find Nonna there.
The room was empty.
It was only on the way back that Cassie spied her.
She’d wandered out of her room, and was sitting on the edge of the bed in one of the other spare rooms.
Looking between the elderly lady and the top of the staircase, Cassie realized with horror that this room offered a perfect view of the stairs.
Nonna must have seen everything.
Cassie felt breathless as the full reality of the situation hit her. Her head spun and the room seemed to close in around her. She grabbed the wall, holding it until the giddiness passed, willing herself not to black out or faint because there was so much that still needed to be done.
Firstly and most importantly, she needed to find out the extent of the trouble she was in.
She tiptoed inside and spoke softly.
“Hello, Nonna.”
The elderly woman stared up at her but her expression was unreadable.
Cassie hesitated. She didn’t know whether Nonna was genuinely tired and confused, or whether witnessing the conflict had shocked her into silence. Either way, Cassie had to find out.
“Have you been here long?” she asked, hoping this would shed some light on the timeframe.
“What are you saying? Non capisco,” Nonna replied, frowning.
“This room. Did you walk in here just now?”
“I do not know,” the elderly woman replied. She seemed disoriented and Cassie guessed she hadn’t understood the question.
She feared that Nonna had tottered out of her bedroom as soon as Ms. Rossi started fighting with Nina, perhaps disturbed by the sound. Caught up in the conflict, neither of them would have noticed.
Nonna whispered something inaudible.
“I didn’t catch that, I’m sorry.”
Cassie leaned closer as Nonna breathed the words again, and her stomach clenched as she heard the word “police.” Was Nonna asking her to call them? If so, she had not only seen, but had understood what had happened.
Or had Cassie misheard, and Nonna had said “please”?
“Do this now,” Nonna said, and this time her voice was clearer.
Cassie gave her a reassuring nod, but her stomach was churning with anxiety. She was unable to work out which word Nonna had used. She decided it would be safest to pretend she hadn’t heard anything, and put her to bed, and hope that even if she’d seen the fight, she might forget the details by the time morning came.
“You’ve had a long day, and it’s already half past seven,” she said, checking the time on her phone. “Can I help you back to your room, and into bed? I’m sure you must be tired.”
The elderly woman stared directly at her and Cassie felt sweat spring out on her body, because from her expression, she was sure Nonna knew. She was certain of it.
“Where is Stefano?” she asked, and Cassie exhaled slowly, her heart thudding hard. She must have been confused, and either not seen the incident or else not understood what she had seen.
“It’s definitely bedtime,” Cassie reassured her, relieved that she hadn’t asked where Ottavia was, which would have pushed Cassie over the edge.
As it was, she managed to retain what she hoped was a semblance of normality. She helped the old woman to her feet in silence. She didn’t feel emotionally strong enough to be able to answer even the simplest of questions.
She guided Nonna back down the corridor and into her small, cozy room. Quickly, Cassie searched for a nightgown in the cupboard and helped the old lady into bed.
Time was ticking by, and she was worried that her efforts to do things the children’s way had already failed. Cassie realized with a feeling of doom that creating an alternate version was far from simple. One slip-up was all it would take.
“Your bathroom’s opposite the bed. I’ll leave the door open and the light on so that you can find it in the night. Can I bring you any water, or a cup of tea?”
“No,” Nonna said.
Again, she gave Cassie a piercing, quizzical look that thoroughly unsettled her.
“I’ll check on you later,” Cassie promised, and closed the door.
Stressed to the point of tears, she sprinted back to her room. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror she stopped, aghast.
The blood in her hair had created a huge matted area, and had seeped down over her left ear and temple. She had a raw, fresh scratch down her cheek, and a scab and dark bruise on her cheekbone from the smack with the belt she’d received yesterday. Her hair was messy and her eyes were wild. Her neck was vivid crimson from the attempted strangling.
Cassie stared at herself in horror. She looked thoroughly guilty, as if she’d been embroiled in a vicious fight. This was how Nonna had seen her and might remember her.
She had no idea how she was going to make herself presentable before the police arrived.
Cassie stood under the shower and winced in agony as the water spattered over the raw gash on her scalp. The water ran red, then pink, and finally clear, even though the wound was still oozing blood.
Out of the shower, she parted her hair on the other side and brushed it across to cover the gash. Tears sprang to her eyes when she touched the stinging wound with her comb. She blow-dried her hair for a few minutes—even on low heat, this was scorching agony—until she was sure it would stay in place. She didn’t want to dry it any longer because according to their version, she had been in the shower when Ms. Rossi had fallen.
That also made it difficult to cover the scratch and bruise on her face. Nobody would put on makeup after their shower, so she needed to keep the camouflage subtle, so that the police would not notice it. In a panic, Cassie wondered if she should think up a different story for where she’d been—but it would only confuse the situation, and any story would have the same holes. Lying and covering up wasn’t easy and Cassie became increasingly certain that she was going to be found out.
The dark bruise took a lot of makeup to cover, and Cassie applied some to her other cheek so that they looked the same color. She made a mental note not to touch her face, because this concealer would smudge easily and then the bruise would show through.
Her neck was a bigger problem because the redness hadn’t faded. Cassie saw that the individual finger marks could actually be seen.
She’d packed her gear, but now it was time to unpack. Cassie threw her belongings out of the bag, searching for the only garment she possessed that might cover this up—a polo-necked cream-colored top.
Pulling it on and looking anxiously in the mirror, she was relieved that this concealed the worst of the evidence.
She went and checked on the children. Nina and Venetia had finished the clean-up, and the upstairs corridor looked pristine, as if their version had been the correct one all along. They were both in Venetia’s room, huddled together on her bed, and they looked at her anxiously when she opened the door.
“I’m calling the police now,” Cassie said.
She headed for the phone, feeling sick with nerves.
It was only when she had already dialed, and the call had been answered, that she remembered just because the local police had been bribed or “encouraged” to ignore the abuse, didn’t mean they hadn’t known it was happening.
Of course they would treat the death as suspicious.
Their first, and immediate, suspect would be Cassie herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Detective Francesca Falcone had just concluded a team meeting when the call came through.
It was from an area in the south of Milan where her unit didn’t usually operate, but there had been an armed robbery and shooting at a nearby supermarket earlier that evening, and every officer from the local department was on the scene. Therefore, the call-out was rerouted to them.
She checked the brief. Accidental death. Ms. Rossi, a woman in her forties, had fallen down a flight of stairs and died. It had been called in by a young woman, foreign sounding, English speaking, who was a worker at the home.
Falcone knew this might be a routine case, but when a young and otherwise healthy person died in a home “accident,” there was always the possibility foul play was involved.
“Can you get the equipment we need? I’ll bring the car round,” she said to her two junior team members, before sprinting out of the office.
Two minutes later, they were on the road, with the junior detective radioing the coroner while Falcone drove.
The house was in an affluent neighborhood, and guarded by a tall, wrought iron gate. There was no need to ring the bell, because a young woman was waiting behind the gate, huddled in an old jacket, with the hood pulled over her head.
As soon as she saw the car arrive she buzzed the gate open and directed the team up the driveway.
Falcone climbed out of the car.
“Good evening,” she greeted the woman.
“G-good evening.”
“I’m Detective Falcone.” She held out her hand, noticing to her surprise that the other woman flinched when she said the word “detective.”
“I’m Cassie Vale.”
Her hand was ice cold, and trembling visibly.
“Can you please show me where the body is?” Falcone asked. Stopping outside the front door, she put on protective foot covers and gloves before walking inside.
She stood in the hallway, taking in the macabre scene in front of her.
At the end of the ornate and beautifully decorated entrance hall was a tall marble stairway, with a giant-size replica of a fancy shoe to its right. The body was lying at the bottom of the stairs, crumpled and still.