Mignatto takes back the folder to write more information on its cover. I wonder why Michael is being so forthcoming. It’s unlike him.
The answer comes a moment later, when Mignatto hands back the phone and says, “Father Black wants to speak to you again.”
“Listen up,” Michael says. “The lawyer tells me you can’t be at our little meeting tonight, so there’s something you and I need to talk about in private. Meet me at Saint Peter’s afterward.”
“In the square?”
“No, in the right transept. I’ll leave the north door open. You know the one I mean?”
Mignatto is trying to overhear. I step away.
“What time?” I say.
“Let’s make it eight. And if I’m not there, you need to find yourself a new witness tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Eight o’clock. Got it?”
When I hang up, Mignatto says, “You’re not to meet with him. Understood? Not outside my presence.”
I ignore the question. “Good night, Monsignor,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I CALL BROTHER SAMUEL’S apartment and ask him to babysit Peter a while longer. Then I call Mona.
“I can’t make it tonight after all,” I say.
She must hear something in my voice. “Is everything all right? Do you want to talk about it?”
I don’t. But the words trickle out.
“I’m angry. Simon lied to me.”
Now the silence. The silence that reveals how, in her heart, she still doubts him.
“Lied about what?” she says finally.
“Never mind.”
More silence.
At last she says, “I’m at my parents’ place. I can meet you anywhere you want, just tell me where.”
“I can’t. Just . . . talk to me.”
“How’s Peter?” she asks.
I close my eyes. “I’ve been at the courthouse all day. Brother Samuel says he’s fine.”
“Alex, you don’t sound good. Let me help you.”
I’m sitting on the bench in the tribunal courtyard. The last commuters are queued at the gas station. Over the roofs of their cars I stare at the Casa.
“I just need some time to think,” I say. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry about tonight.”
Before she can answer, I hang up. The ache that has been building for hours is now painful. When Simon and I used to feel this way after Mamma died, we would run cross-country and back. The hills. The steps. The shadows of the walls. We would run until we were buckled over, heaving on the ground, cooling ourselves in the overspray of the fountains. I close my eyes. Give him back to me, Lord. I need my brother.
I count the Casa windows. I know which room is 328. It’s only a floor beneath where Peter and I were staying, but along the far side of the building. By my count, a corner room. I’m staring at its west-facing windows right now.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day. Maybe that’s Boia’s plan. To keep Simon until the exhibit is over.