Chapter 2 - The Man in the Cardigan
The next morning, I woke to an empty bed.
For one dreadful second, I could hear nothing.
Then I heard Junie laughing outside.
I ran down the stone steps in borrowed shoes and found her on the beach wearing a yellow raincoat.
Dom stood nearby.
Nico carried an old coffee can.
“You took her outside?”
My voice came out sharp enough to make Junie turn.
“She asked Mrs. Pace,” Dom said. “Mrs. Pace asked me.”
“I’m her mother.”
“Yes,” Nico said quietly. “And you should have been asked.”
The simple agreement interrupted my anger.
He didn’t tell me I was overreacting.
He didn’t remind me whose beach it was.
He handed me the coffee can.
“Would you like to see what she found?”
Inside lay six pieces of green sea glass.
Junie held up another.
“It used to be sharp, but the ocean fixed it.”
I looked at Nico.
“That’s what you told her?”
“More or less.”
Junie frowned at him.
“You said it took a long time.”
“It does.”
She considered the glass with new respect.
Over the next six days, the estate developed a routine so ordinary that I sometimes forgot why we were there.
Mrs. Pace made breakfast.
Junie and I read in the window seat.
Dom escorted us outside when the weather allowed.
At ten each night, I reported to Whittaker.
He asked about doors, visitors, vehicles, and Nico’s private study.
I answered some questions.
Others made me uncomfortable.
“Does Barone keep his schedules on paper?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
“I’m not searching his desk.”
“Tessa, this man isn’t your friend.”
I looked toward the kitchen, where Mrs. Pace had left a covered plate because she’d noticed I hadn’t finished dinner.
“I know.”
But knowing had become less simple.
Nico never raised his voice.
Men approached him cautiously, and conversations stopped when I entered. I wasn’t foolish enough to confuse manners with innocence.
Still, there were other things.
He repaired a loose window latch himself.
He knew which tea helped Mrs. Pace’s stomach.
He always lowered himself into a chair carefully, as though admitting pain aloud would be impolite.
On the fourth afternoon, Junie discovered the boathouse.
Inside stood an old wooden runabout with an unfinished mahogany hull. Nico was working near the stern, sleeves rolled above his wrists.
“What happened to it?” Junie asked.
“Time.”
“Can you fix time?”
“No.”
She studied the boat.
“Just the things it breaks?”
His hands went still.
“Sometimes.”
He showed her how to rub sandpaper along a scrap of wood while I watched from the doorway.
She worked with solemn concentration.
Then she asked, “Are you a bad man?”
“Junie.”
“It’s a fair question,” Nico said.
He crouched slowly beside her.
“Why do you ask?”
“Dom has a gun. You have giant gates. Mommy says people with giant gates are scared or dangerous.”
I closed my eyes.
Nico considered her answer.
“Your mother notices things.”
“So which one are you?”
“Some days, both.”
Junie looked disappointed.
“You should try being something else.”
For the first time, I heard Dom laugh.
It was brief and surprised.
Nico smiled at her.
“I’ll consider it.”
That night, Mrs. Pace told me about Paul.
Nico’s younger brother had laughed loudly, danced badly, and remembered everyone’s birthday.
He had been shot outside a church in 2019.
“For a month afterward,” she said, “Nico spoke only when he had to.”
I looked toward the main house.
“Did he have children?”
“No.”
“A wife?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
Mrs. Pace folded a dish towel.
“People leave for many reasons. Some of them are good reasons.”
There was no accusation in her voice.
That made the words harder to dismiss.
During my next report, I told Whittaker about a delivery van.
I did not tell him about Paul.
I did not tell him that Nico kept his brother’s reading glasses in a drawer beside the boathouse tools.
Those details did not belong to the investigation.
They belonged to a person.
On the seventh afternoon, Junie found Nico staring out at the sea.
She stood beside him for a while.
Then she held out Button.
“You can borrow him.”
Nico looked down.
“I wouldn’t want to take your friend.”
“He helps when people are sad.”
“Do I look sad?”
“A little. Around your eyes.”
He accepted the whale with the care someone else might give a fragile heirloom.
“How long may I borrow him?”
“Until you stop making that face.”
Later, I found Button resting beside Nico’s newspaper.
Something about it hurt.
A powerful man, alone in a large room, with my daughter’s battered toy keeping him company.
That evening, Whittaker asked whether Nico had changed the household security arrangements.
I frowned.
“How would I know?”
“Ask.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you’re protected.”
He sounded irritated.
After the call, I stared at the transmitter.
Then I remembered him repairing Button’s seam.
May you like
I remembered how long he had held the toy.
And I wondered why that small kindness no longer felt kind.
