“French homework. It’s a fairy tale by Anatole France . . .”

Rocco picked it up. “Abeille . . . what does that mean?”

“‘Bee’ . . . ‘little bee’ . . . It’s a fairy tale, like I told you. But I don’t know why, I can’t seem to concentrate. I read a line and then . . .”

“And then?”

“And then my mind starts to wander. I’m back in that garage in the midst of all that snow.”

Rocco set the book down. “A girl all alone in the woods, a captive of the evil ogre, and then Prince Charming comes along and saves her.”

Finally Chiara looked at the deputy chief. “And are you supposed to be Prince Charming?”

“In the fairy tale, sure. In reality, not so much. I’m just a policeman.”

“Right, and in fact, I imagine Prince Charming a little different from you.”

“I know. He looks a little more like Max Turrini, right?”

Chiara bit her lip. “Right. Max keeps coming over. But I don’t know. Tell me the truth, Dottor Schiavone. They raped me, didn’t they?”

Caterina tried to catch her boss’s eye, but instead, he just answered without paying the slightest attention to her. “Yes, Chiara. They did.”

Chiara sniffed loudly, then wiped away a tear. “Thanks. You’re the only person who tells me the truth.”

“In many cases, that’s a benefit. Other times, it’s best to say nothing. But I think it’s best if you know what really happened. Anyway, the two sons of bitches are dead.”

“They are. But what about the person who sent them?”

“So is he. Murdered in prison.”

“Good, I’m not ashamed to say that I’m happy to hear it.”

“Do you know what I’d do if I were you?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t go back to school this year. I’d take a sabbatical. And I’d travel. I’d go out and see the world. London, Paris, Amsterdam . . . just between you and me, they have marijuana in Amsterdam that’s unbelievable. Have you ever tried the Grand Mix?”

Chiara smiled. “To hear this from a policeman . . .”

“Look.” Rocco stuck his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a big joint, ready rolled. Caterina’s eyes bugged out. So did Chiara’s. Rocco lit it. He took a long drag.

“Ahhh . . . I feel better already.” And he handed the joint to Chiara, who sat there, on her bed, both arms wrapped around her knees. The girl looked over at the deputy inspector as if asking permission. Caterina, frozen in place on the leather swivel chair, didn’t move a muscle. Slowly, the girl reached out her hand, took the joint, lifted it to her mouth, and inhaled. She shut her eyes. Then she slowly exhaled. “Nice,” she said.

“It is, isn’t it? This comes from Amsterdam, just to give you an idea.”

Chiara finally burst out laughing. “I can’t believe it. A deputy chief of police handing me a joint.”