“I’ll stay. Go home and rest for a couple of hours. I’ll call you when it’s time.”

It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order, though her voice when she imparted it was so tired that he could barely hear it.

Massimo watched her walk toward the entrance, looking exhausted in mind and body. It was obvious that something inside her was beginning to give; something had cracked and was making her falter. Yet she stayed on her feet and kept going, despite everything.

He returned to his car, turned the engine on, and realized that he didn’t really feel like holing up in his apartment—that place he still didn’t quite consider a home.

He drove aimlessly around the city center, hoping that it might relax him, but having to deal with the traffic and with reckless pedestrians worsened his mood. He was waiting at a red light when he remembered that he wasn’t too far from the public library.

Why not, he thought.

When the light changed to green, he took a turn instead of driving straight through.

He had already devoured the books he’d borrowed earlier, reading well into the night and during the short breaks he took for lunch and dinner, and he’d been surprised to find he was actually interested in the material. He wanted to continue this journey into the psyche of a murderer partly to better understand how Teresa Battaglia worked: what she thought, why she thought it.

At that time of night, the library was full of university students. Massimo tried to blend in and made a point of not looking for the girl who’d pegged him for a sociopath the last time he’d come. He made straight for the section he was interested in and started scanning the book spines.

Would Teresa Battaglia also come here, back in the day, and turn her face up to the shelves, a fire inside her urging her to find out more, to look beyond the surface of things? He could picture her there, the temples of her glasses between her lips, constantly blowing her red fringe out of her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He turned around. It was her, the librarian girl, and this time she was smiling at him.

“Hi,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, biting her lip.

Massimo shrugged.

“What for?” he asked.

“For thinking you were some kind of murderous psycho.”

He laughed.

“What makes you think I’m not?” he teased.

“I saw you on TV, on the news.”

“Oh, so psychos can’t be on TV?”

She laughed, too.

“You could have told me you were a policeman.”

“You didn’t exactly give me time to mention it,” he replied.

He saw her lower her eyes briefly. She must be feeling guilty.

Shit, now I’m beginning to think like the superintendent, too. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried about that.