“Up early tomorrow?”

I hoped I would be, anxious to get back to the journal, but it was none of his business, so I didn’t answer, slid off the barstool, and turned to go. He stopped me, a hand on my arm.

“Hold on. We never introduced ourselves.”

“Right. I’m Luke Perrone.”

He extended his hand. “John Smith. Really good to meet you,” he said and punched my arm again.

I felt like punching him back, harder, something about him I didn’t like or trust, those dark shades indoors, all the questions, but all I did was say, “Good night.”

28

I have not been writing for days. I could not. The idea of putting this down on paper was too painful. Instead I made drawings on the walls of my cell. Anything to distract myself. But today I have decided I must write everything down. Exactly as it happened. Every word.

Days passed at the museum. When I finished my work on the glass box for the Mona Lisa Ticolat told me that my services were no longer needed. He used the excuse that I had taken days off. Which was true. But I had only stayed home to take care of Simone. Ticolat knew this but he had no sympathy.

I did not know what to do. How would I make money? How would we survive? I could not sleep. I could not eat. I tried to hide my worry from Simone. I pretended to go to work every day. I looked for carpentry jobs. But there were none. Our funds grew low. And I became desperate.

And so I met with Valfiero. I told him I would agree to his plan. I asked him for a few francs on deposit and he gave them to me. We shook hands. But I swear I had no intention of going through with the plan. Not until Simone’s condition became worse.

For days she had been unwell. Now she was shivering. Her face flushed. Her breath constricted.

I wrapped another blanket around her. I told her we must go to the hospital. But she protested. Her voice was weak but her will like iron. She claimed the last time the hospital had almost killed her with neglect. She was confident she would get better. That it was just a silly cold.

But her cough worsened.

I implored her to let me take her to the hospital. Again she refused. She begged me. Told me how much she hated the place. That the baby would be here in a few days and she would be strong again. She said the medicine I had purchased from the chemist was all she needed.

It was impossible to fight her.

Another day passed and her cough persisted. And when I saw her handkerchief spotted with blood I would no longer listen to her protests. I lifted her into my arms. She was too sick to fight me and folded her frail body against mine. I felt her fevered breath against my cheek.