Chapter 66

66

Jonathan

I shot Andrew under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio. He fell into the Arno. I had been reading a lot about harmonic principles at the time, so it was one of my most pretentious hits.

Of course, Alfie fought me on it. It was too public, he said. Too attention getting. But what he did not realize was that there are two ways to hide a death: in the dark and in the open. People die at national monuments all the time. In fact, statistically, they die at memorable locations more than anywhere else. Famous cliffs. Notorious hotels. Suicide bridges.

Alfie was also not happy because it was hard to confirm the kill. The body did not turn up right away. There was a dispute about my payment, and then, luckily, Andrew was found.

It drives me crazy now. Not that I killed him, but that Eva was out there then, hurting. Eva was out there all this time when she could have been with me. Now that we have found each other, there are people who want us dead. Life is the only thing more unfair than death.

We stop at Eva's old apartment in Florence to get the keys to Andrew's place. She searches cupboards and drawers.

"I haven't taken them out in years," she says, "but I know they're in here somewhere."

"Is this your home base?" I ask. It is a collegiate-style artist's loft above the Arno. It is actually disconcertingly near the Ponte Vecchio.

"It's supposed to be." Eva sighs and puts her hands on her hips. "But to be honest, I'm never here anymore. I should probably just let it go."

The walls are halfheartedly decorated with unframed prints from various museums: Renoir and Monet and van Gogh. It could be Eva's personality; it could be someone else's. That is the life we lead, never wanting to give anything away.

"Can I sit on your bed?" I ask.

"?'Course you can." She is searching the kitchen drawers.

I sit on her bed, run my fingers along the musty covers. It smells of her and it smells of dust.

"I wish I had known you were here," I say. "I wish I had known you were anywhere."

"Maybe it would have been too soon," she says. "Maybe the timing was off."

"I don't believe that."

"We can't go back. I think both of us need to realize that."

"You're right," I say, lying back on her bed, gazing up at her ceiling, imagining all the nights she lay like this alone when she could have been with me.

"Found them!" She jumps up, wiggling the keys with her fingers. They are held together with a red ribbon.

"Come here," I say. "I want to congratulate you."

She climbs over me and slaps me playfully. "We need to focus—remember?"

I do not want to focus. I am nervous about going to Andrew's apartment. Afraid of seeing her love for him on her face. Afraid of knowing I turned her love into grief. I keep waiting for her to wake up and realize how dark I really am. She says she knows, but I do not think she does. I am not sure she can.

She sits back, observing me. "What is it?" she says, like she can read my thoughts.

"I'm sorry," I say, even though I know it will annoy her.

"You don't have to be sorry. You killed people. I killed people. We have to let it go. We have to move forward." She slides off me. "It's the only way we're ever getting out of this."

But she is wrong. She knows she is. Because to get out of this, we are going to have to kill a lot more people.