Niko’s did not.
Finally, my father said, “The investigation is reopening.”
“What investigation?”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“Your mother’s death.”
The room tilted.
For years, the facts had remained fixed.
My mother, Elena Shaw, had died in a car accident when I was eleven. A wet road. A failed barrier. A night drive outside Monreale. It had been written in reports, repeated at memorials, and accepted by everyone who loved her because grief was difficult enough without questions.
“There was no investigation,” I said.
“There was,” Arthur replied. “Privately.”
My voice sounded far away.
“You told me it was an accident.”
“That was what the police concluded.”
“But you did not believe them.”
“I did not know what to believe.”
Niko remained near the door, silent.
I looked at him.
“What does this have to do with your family?”
His expression was unreadable.
“My father was accused of arranging the crash.”
