All three of them laughed. Rocco passed the joint back around to Chiara, and this time she took a drag without much hesitation. “I realize that this is something I can tell you.” She stood up. She grabbed the crutch that leaned against the nightstand, hobbled over to the armoire, and opened it.

When she got back to the bed, she was carrying a ream of paper.

“Have you written a book?” Rocco asked her, frightened now.

“No, don’t worry. These are photocopies that Max made.” She sat down with her legs crossed, the paper in her lap. “These are things he found in his father’s office. Because for some time now, he’s thought things aren’t really adding up.”

“I’m not following you.”

“His parents . . . he hates them. He hates that bitch of a mother and that whoremonger of a father. The Turrinis are nasty people. And they hang out with nasty people.”

“I know that from personal experience,” Rocco said.

“They have some strange frequentations. Max xeroxed the documents that his father had in his safe, and he brought them to me because he doesn’t understand a word of it.”

“And what did you understand?”

“Not much. But . . .” And she started leafing through. “There’s one thing that’s pretty clear. His father owns a dozen or so companies, half of them in Switzerland. And it’s not clear what they’re for. Moreover”—and she handed a sheet of paper to Rocco—“you see this document? It’s a contract with a building company . . . the one that screwed Papà out of the project.”

“Chiara, these are extremely sensitive matters.”

“Take these documents to Judge Baldi. He’ll listen to you.”

“And how are we going to explain to the judge that we came into possession of these documents?” Caterina asked.

“Caterì, that’s the least of our concerns. Baldi is used to this sort of thing, at least he’s gotten used to it since we started working together.” He handed the sheet of paper back to the young woman. “Let’s do this, Chiara. I’ll take this stuff to the court building. I’ll leave out your name and Max’s. And in exchange I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Dress up nice, go back to being as attractive as you are, get out of this room and away from the fairy tales of Anatole France, go back to school, say so long to your classmates, and leave, or else sit down and go back to doing what at your age you do best.”

“Which would be what?”

“Living your life.”