Clotilde didn’t pursue it. Her Papé was basically like everyone else. A man who had somehow abandoned his dreams, because the world was turning too quickly, a huge machine that swept away any chance of utopia. She hesitated, and for the time being she decided against telling him her version of events: Cervone Spinello unscrewing the bolt from the steering of the Fuego because he was sure that, that evening, Paul and Palma Idrissi wouldn’t be taking it, that they would climb along the path as planned and sleep at Casa di Stella. Because the one who was supposed to be driving the car that evening, even though none of the adults was aware of it, was Nicolas. Nicolas, with Maria-Chjara. They were the ones the murderer wanted to get rid of. Out of envy, jealousy, out of spite. Cassanu couldn’t have come up with that hypothesis – nor could anyone over the age of eighteen. The secrets of a group of teenagers are more difficult to penetrate than those of a Corsican village under the rule of omertà.

They crossed the courtyard of the farm, passing by the beds of orchids planted by Lisabetta. Contrary to Clotilde’s expectations, Cassanu didn’t hurry towards the kitchen. He sat down on the bench, the one on which she had fallen asleep before the accident twenty-seven years ago.

No, she reflected, no one could have guessed what was going on amongst that group of teenagers that summer. No one.

Unless …

Clotilde watched Cassanu catching his breath on the bench. He looked like a cat. A big, dozing cat that you think is tired, listless, incapable of making the slightest effort, but which leaps at the slightest hint of danger. Swift, accurate, ruthless.

Lisabetta had emerged from the house and was approaching them anxiously. Speranza stayed in the doorway, ever vigilant.

‘Are you all right, Cassanu?’

The old Corsican didn’t reply. He gently closed his eyes, allowing the sun to soothe him, but yes, he nodded, he was fine. A walking stick, a hat, his farm, his oak, his tribe.

Unless …

Clotilde’s thoughts were in a spin.

She was sitting there, where Cassanu now sat, a few minutes before the accident. She had gone to sleep, listening to Mano Negra, and had scribbled down a few last words before her father forced her to get into the Fuego.

Unless …

No adult could have guessed at the dramas being played out among the teenagers in the summer of ’89.

Unless one of them had read her diary.

Mamy Lisabetta came over and rested a hand on her shoulder, reassured that her husband’s health seemed to be fine. She leaned towards her granddaughter’s ear, as if she had a secret to tell her. As if she had read her thoughts.

‘On the evening of the accident, my darling, you left your notebook behind, on that bench. Well …’

Before she could continue, Clotilde’s phone rang in her pocket.

Franck!