Massimo’s not in the guard room when I get there, and Sam is just settling back in. He says the car’s waiting for me in the lot, but I barely hear him. And anyway, it’s not waiting. Timothy’s stuck in traffic, so I stir my frustration at not being able to really talk to Dario with disappointment in myself for not doing more with less, and add a pinch of tight, brittle anger, crumbled into a powder.

And what is Choof off?

Should I know what that means?

Timothy arrives with apologies and asks me how I’m doing, as he always does, but I’m distracted by what I’m supposed to do with the information Dario gave me. Timothy gets the hint and drives the rest of the way in silence.

Nelson’s waiting as we pull up to the Murray Hill apartment. So is Connor, arm still bent into the sling, smoking a cigarette at the bus stop, leaning against a pole littered with flyers like a skirt layered with ruffles.

Nelson opens the back door. “Afternoon, Sarah.”

“Good afternoon.”

He has the same dull affect he always had. Though he’s a few years older than me, we were learning the same things in school. He continued with his education after mine was considered redundant. I always thought of him as harmless. Now I know better. None of them are harmless. Not a single one.

The door to the apartment is ajar. Nelson goes in first, checks for outsiders I hope are there before he returns to tell me they’re not.

“Massi’s here.”

“Thanks.” I go in.

Nelson closes the door behind me. Massimo’s not in the kitchen or living room. I check his old bedroom. Not there. Rattling and rustling down the hall tells me he’s in Daddy’s private office.

The office door is wide open. My brother is behind the desk, drawing a stack of folders from the bottom drawer and slapping them on the blotter. The floor is carpeted with papers. Tchotchkes and framed pictures are off their shelves. A painting of Vesuvius has been removed to reveal a safe.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.”

He grunts. I look for a clear spot to walk, finding a patch of floor for the first step, but I have to step on a spray of yellow receipts for the second.

“You turned the camera back on.”

“And he’s as depraved as I thought.”

“So then you’re looking for something on the 25th.”

He looks up at me, hands on a stack of folders, a lock of hair dropping over one hazel eye as if he’s just woken late for school. “Go get me a cup of coffee, would you?”

My first reaction is to head for the kitchen, but I stop myself.

“You have some right there.” I point at the white mug.