Rocco felt a vague surge of satisfaction as he noticed that his name hadn’t appeared once in that article. Still, it wasn’t enough to alleviate his state of prostration. He hadn’t left his residential hotel room for three days. In the past three days he hadn’t once turned on his cell phone, he hadn’t laid eyes on the office or his colleagues, he hadn’t gone for his usual breakfast in Piazza Chanoux, he hadn’t smoked a joint, he hadn’t seen Anna. Aside from taking Lupa out for a walk and a pee, he remained behind closed doors in his apartment in the Vieux Aosta Residence, staring at, variously, the television set and the ceiling, as often as not finding the latter far more interesting. Lupa seemed to love this new life, which consisted of long naps on the bed next to her master, ravenous meals, and romps through the historic center of town to help digest meals. It was understandable. She’d been abandoned in the snow, where she’d wandered for days on end through forests and across fields, narrowly avoiding death countless times. To be able to curl up in the warmth of a safe haven now, on a soft and cozy goose-down blanket, without anxieties or fear of tribulation or the risk of being hit by a truck? Well, it seemed to her like a dream come true. And she luxuriated in that toasty comfort, relishing every second of that newfound safety.

Newspaper in hand, Rocco turned the page.

STILL NAMELESS: THE MURDERER OF RUE PIAVE