The innuendo was clear. I would have snapped at him again if not for the chill that ran through me. I thought about how Isabella had discovered Paolo and me in bed, and I wondered who else might know, and to what conclusion this all might lead. I held these concerns from my face and instead looked over the menu, glancing over the top of the card as I ordered—meeting the waiter’s eyes without seeing him, smiling in the icy way I’d seen my mother smile at men who’d overstepped their bounds.

“Melone con prosciutto,” I said. “E vino bianco.”

I took away my gaze and didn’t look at him anymore. After he left, I turned to my brother.

“Can’t you keep your mouth shut?”

“I’m not the only source of rumors in this town.”

“Things are difficult enough,” I said. “You don’t need to aggravate the situation by talking to waiters.”

“You’re the reckless one.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s the point of meeting me here, isn’t it? To make arrangements,” my brother snapped. “Do you think I enjoy playing your pander?” We weren’t usually like this with each other. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how difficult things are.” His eyes went tender. Johnny was like that. He could be charming and sweet, but there was darkness beneath that charm, and he could switch on a dime. Most everyone is like that sometimes. Even so, I had an unpleasant thought about the kinds of things my brother was capable of. I pushed the idea away. Isabella had been almost five thousand miles away when she died, on another continent, across the Atlantic Ocean.

“Paolo’s making arrangements,” my brother said, “to have her body flown back to Rome. And in between dealing with that—talking to the police in New York. And the carabinieri here”

“Some of the things people are saying. About how she died.”

“No one takes those seriously.”

“Still.”

“Never mind,” he said. “Paolo wants to see you.”

The waiter brought my melon wrapped in prosciutto. He brought some bruschetta and a nice glass of wine. And ceviche fresh from the Adriatic coast. He seemed chastened and served us without speaking. After a while some new people came in, and there was a small buzz on the patio around us. I heard Paolo’s name in the same breath as Isabella’s. It wasn’t surprising. Her face was in all the media. And the coroner’s photos were trending, too.

Isabella in her lingerie, on the bathroom floor. Her hair ruffled up, all a mess. You could see her mottled face and heart-shaped lips and long lashes. There was something provocative in the way she lay there. In how her legs were spread, and in the arch of her back.

“It’s a pity.”

“Yes.”

“Such a beautiful woman.”

“Though a little matronly.”

“It’s a shame.”