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  “We all need saving at some point.”

  I reflect upon how close to the truth my thoughts are. After all, hadn’t I intentionally concealed information from the police, the fact that the murdered woman knew me, the curious yet familiar name she used, the birthday card; its mysterious predecessors? Hadn’t I stated to Weatherly that I had no knowledge as to her identity, even though I knew this to be false?

  Hadn’t I even considered the idea that the wrong person was shot?

  “He is someone you can trust,” Matty says.

  And I believe him.

  The perpetual bustle of passing cars jolted me back to reality. Recalling Matty had done little to change my mounting insecurity.

  I pictured the forthcoming meeting with Saul Reardon. I played out the likely conversation. I could even visualize the expressions on his face, shifting from mild bewilderment to complete disbelief, perhaps even amusement when I finally revealed the truth.

  I cringed at the thought, anxiety swelling larger than the late afternoon traffic. Visions of my home began to spread through my chaotic mind, visions of soft, feather doonas and thick, downy pillows where heads can sink forever.

  It didn’t tell me what I should do. It simply gave me the time to do it myself. In a flash, I leaned forward and turned the ignition key.

  I was being truthful when I said people needed saving at some point in their life. I was being truthful when I said that this man could possibly help.

  Nevertheless, I had changed my mind.

  I set the course for home.

  ***

  “Claudia, wake up.” The voice was deep and masculine.

  “Leave me alone,” I grunted and pulled the snuggly doona over my head.

  “Like hell, I will.”

  I heard a swish, felt the cool air-conditioned air swiftly nip my skin.

  “You are getting up!” boomed the same insistent voice.

  I growled and bolted upright. Several dialects of swear words crossed my hot-tempered head. I recognized my brother, Nathaniel, or as I called him, Nate. I immediately bit back any blasphemous counter-attack.

  “Jeez, Clauds, you look terrible.” His frown was heavy.

  “Thanks,” I replied sarcastically. I tried straightening my hair. Ugh! It felt all knotted and coarse. I grumpily peeked up at Nate. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  I threw out my palms and mouthed, “What?”

  He stared at me as if I had just sprouted a pair of large horns. I patted my head to check.

  “Would a Buon Natale, [Merry Christmas] suffice?”

  It sufficed plenty. “Shit!” I scrambled along the bed. Something wobbled in my head from the sudden rush as I soundlessly begged forgiveness from my Mama, Papa and all the heavens above for my shameful exclamations on such a reverent day. I instinctually grabbed onto my brother and waited for the spinning to pass. I then stumbled to my wardrobe.

  “And put on some makeup,” Nate suggested. “Mama and Papa are going to go ballistic if they see you looking so pale!”

  While I was getting ready, I spotted Nate casting a long, slow look around him. I bit my lip. Several items of clothing littered the floor or hung from two semi-opened drawers of the tall, wooden chest. Shoes were scattered in all directions. Partially opened books scored the two bedside cabinets along with three half-emptied coffee cups and an open packet of musk sticks.

  Nate closed his eyes and groaned.

  The kitchen and the bathroom bore a similar, dismal outlook. I recalled countless times when I tried to clean, but the brief motivation collapsed along with my own miserable depression. I flushed hot with shame.

  Pushing it all aside, I instead focused on my appearance. Before long, I posed before Nate, dressed in a white strappy dress, the hemline bordered with a bright floral design. A long, richly hued necklace swayed between my breasts; matching bangles jingled playfully along my wrist. I had pinned my hair back in a lazy knot and curled some wisps around my now made up face. I appealed to Nate for approval.

  “Better,” he said, holding a green object. “Here’s your bag. Let’s go.”

  I collected the bag, grabbed my keys and a fresh packet of musk sticks and tossed them both into it.

  ***

  The drive to my parents’ home began wordlessly, my brother absorbed with the challenging twists in the road. Physically, we could have been twins; both tall and leanly built, both possessing thick, russet-colored hair and very distinctive, wide-set eyes. As Mel so bluntly put it once, “Your eyes are like bloody newborn calves, Claudia, a pair of pure, chocolate innocence and unbearable cuteness. Even, fricking Hitler would’ve laid down his army for them.”

  Mel was always prone to over exaggeration, but the thought made me smile all the same. I turned my thoughts back to Nate.

  He was younger than I was by almost seven years but often assumed the role of big brother. This wasn’t simply a by-product of my occasional, emotional requirements. He just retained a maturity, a common ‘senseness,’ well beyond his years, often attracting girls older than him, like his ex, Suzy Baker and his current girlfriend Ellen. And once again, he had come to my rescue. I reached out, touched his knee and thanked him.

  “Not needed,” he said. “But Mama and Papa think we had this prearranged, me picking you up.”

  “Got it.”

  “And if I were you, I’d clean your place up before the olds see it.”

  “That bad?” As if, I didn’t already know.

  “Ooo… yeah,” Nate gave me a cheeky looking wink.

  Silence again.

  “You okay, Clauds?”

  I shifted my gaze out the window and scrutinized inner suburbia zipping past. Children with beaming faces dotted the yards, amusing themselves with their new possessions. Christmas, I mused, was happy children. I sighed wearily. When would I ever be okay?

  “Not really,” I said. I had never lied to him but I had no desire to talk about recent events either. “You know, I searched for my name on the internet the other week.”

  That caused an intrigued looking smile. “Why?”

  “To discover its meaning.”

  “And?”

  “And it means crippled.” I let that hang for a while. Nate appeared a little bewildered. “Do you reckon Mama and Papa foresaw they had a train wreck in nappies when they chose that name?” I knew I was being over dramatic and over emotional, but I could with Nate.

  “You’re not crippled, you’re just….”

  “What?” I pressed him.

  “Going through a bad time.”

  I sighed, allowing my thoughts to wander. Not long after, we arrived at our parents’ home.

  “Ready for this?”

  My stomach flipped as I stared at my parents’ two story brick home. “Are they all here, like even Uncle Franco and...?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I had no basis to be astounded by this. After all, it was Christmas and this was what the Cabriati family did, some members traveling great distances just to be present. Maybe it was the unsettling recognition of what was yet to come. “And I guess they’ve all been worrying too.”

  “Um, more like agonizing!”

  I winced. “Great. Can you take me back home now?”

  “As if the family would ever let that happen.” He hopped out of the car. “Just suck it up, chicken!”

  I reluctantly pulled myself out. “I have no presents.”

  “No one expects any from you.” Nate paused. “Look, I know what they’re like but cut them some slack. They’ve been really worried.” He sidled up to me, throwing his long, sleeveless arm around my neck. “Anyway,” he said cheerfully, “don’t forget what Papa always says. Blood is thicker than water and…”

  “…the Cabriati blood is thicker than that! How could I possibly forget?”

  We both laughed and entered where the celebrations were already well under way.

  Chapter 7

  Claud
ia

  December 25, 2010

  12:05 pm

  “HOW IS MY favorite daughter?” a low, accented voice muttered near my ear.

  I was seated on an old, timber seat situated at the rear of my parent’s sizeable backyard. “Your only daughter is just fine.” I patted the vacant spot beside me.

  Papa sat his large framed body against the back of the seat and crossed his solid legs. The seat creaked and wobbled. “Are you sure of that?” he said, examining me more closely. “You look a little pale.”

  I groaned inwardly. So much for my diversionary tactics of color. “Papa, I’m okay.” I answered in my best happy voice. But Papa knew me too well.

  “My little Carino….” And he cast a slow, sorrowful gaze over me. Carino was my Papa’s pet name for me, one that he had used for as long as I could recall. It was Italian for cute.

  A significant upgrade, I noted, on crippled.

  For a short time, we watched our loud, high-spirited family revel in much eating, much drinking and much laughter. I semi-grinned at some of their typical idiosyncratic behaviors. And at the knowledge that the bonds in the Cabriati family were truly strong.

  “Would you not reconsider returning home if only for a short time, until things settle a little?” Papa asked.

  I noticed the growing disquiet on his face, the heavy frown, the downturn of his now lack-luster eyes, and it troubled me. At times, I honestly believed his only purpose for existing was to brood over me. And sadly, in light of recent events, that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

  “I know you’re worried,” I began, “but you must let me deal with this in my own way.”

  However, I was fast questioning my ability to do that. Particularly in light of my last conversation with one very miffed Mel.

  “Damn it, Claudia,” she scolds, after discovering I had pulled out of the meeting with Saul Reardon. “This isn’t some game you’re playing here. Or worse, something you can just lock away inside your head and pretend never happened. This woman knew you. And although I understand why you didn’t explain everything to the police, you need to explain it to someone. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  She is right.

  “I just wish all of this would go away.” But of course, I am being naïve, unrealistic.

  “I know.” Mel’s voice is gentler now. “Listen,” she says. “How about we just get through Christmas first. After that, if the police still have no answers, we go to someone. Whether that someone is Saul Reardon or not, we just do it… okay?”

  It is a fair trade off.

  My father cleared his throat and I turned to him. His eyes are like a gunmetal blue, strong, full of authority and they were shrewdly watching me. “Are you sure you did not know this woman?”

  I found the question odd. Papa had already asked it on two other occasions. I shifted uneasily. Trying not to avoid his sharp gaze, I answered. “Like I’ve told you, she somehow knew me. But I’ve no idea from where or when and definitely not who she is… was.”

  I felt immediate guilt at my lie. But Papa didn’t need any further anxiety. He watched me some more. Soon the deep ruts on his brow smoothed away and a more relaxed shine returned to his eyes.

  “You’re looking well, Papa.” My assessment was two-fold, not merely to change the subject but because he did have a distinct glow of wellness about him. And it gave me much comfort.

  Crinkles fanned from his smiling eyes. He ran the back of his large hand against my cheek. “Who is worrying, now,” he said. “My heart attack was seven years ago. Your Papa’s doctors say I am strong like… like a bear.” He flexed both his arms. And then he laughed.

  I laughed with him, but I knew I could never forget that horrendous era when we had nearly lost him. “How about I stay the night,” I said, “seeing it’s Christmas.”

  He gave me a tight squeeze. “You should spend some time with your Mama too.”

  I thought it a curious request. As much as my mother loved me, we weren’t that close. I turned to see her short, fine frame swirling in soft hues of greens and blues, sturdily balancing on her much-loved, red high-heels. I didn’t know how she coped with such an elaborate production each year. But there she was, directing several of the female tribe, who helped taxi plump platters of food.

  “Of course,” I assured Papa.

  “Hey, you two!” My youngest brother, Marcus appeared carrying a white, plastic chair and a sizeable plate stuffed with food. I instantly recognized the delicious smells of freshly homemade antipasto and focaccia, baked honey ham and apple encrusted roast pork.

  “Looks good,” Papa said. “Your Mama has really outdone herself this year.” He stood up. “Want some?” he asked me.

  Um, yeah!

  “Far out,” Marcus said, as our father strode away, “you have him totally wrapped around your little fingers.”

  “You’re just jealous,” I teased. “So where’s the true favorite of this family?”

  “Milo?” Marcus was referring to our oldest sibling. He grunted. “He’s having lunch with some so-called pals. Can you imagine if any of us even suggested not having Christmas with the olds?” He mimicked a rugged, blunt knife slicing his throat.

  “Nothing short of sacrilegious.” I laughed.

  It was during the late afternoon, while I was hanging out with my two brothers, that Milo made his long-awaited entrance.

  Nate nudged me. “Our prodigal brother has arrived. Stand back and watch the spectacle.”

  A small commotion began bubbling where Milo had entered. He was balancing a tower of colorfully wrapped gifts that he fast laid on the table. Family swarmed to him with eager, beaming faces. Milo greeted them in his typically cool, semi-detached manner. I watched with a mild sense of awe. It was always the same.

  Milo was the flame and the moths were hovering.

  Deciding that this particular moth would have ample time later to warm her wings, I instead stayed with my brothers. Before long, Milo stepped up to us. We hugged, superficial hugs like usual, made meek attempts at small talk. Until Milo asked if he could speak to me privately. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a private conversation with Milo and it triggered my freaking out sirens.

  However, I tried not to show it, unlike Nate and Marcus with their comically shot-up eyebrows and gaping mouths.

  ***

  Privately for Milo turned out to be his old bedroom. As I entered, I felt as I always did, like one walking into a long, forgotten tomb, cold, dismal, ‘shadow-less’. Sparsely furnished with just the bare necessities, the narrow windows and queen-size bed were dressed in what Mama protectively claimed was midnight blue. My brothers and I saw it for what it was, a few shades from depressive black.

  I shivered off the macabre thoughts and swung to face my brother. His stony, Papa-like eyes were staring straight at me. “How are you going, you know, with what happened?”

  I was astounded. It wasn’t as if my brother wouldn’t care; it was just uncommon for him to show it. “As fine as one can be,” I quipped, “after some poor lady has been shot in front of you.”

  Milo grimaced, quite noticeably. “Did you know her?”

  Why does everyone keep asking that? “No, I didn’t.” Yet another lie, but I wasn’t about to trust Milo with my absurd ideas about Alice.

  His bottom lip dropped away as if readying to say something, but then it stilled. His thick fingers scraped his ashen-colored hair, causing my own fingers to jitter and knot. He was really freaking me out now.

  “Your fingers,” he whispered.

  I shot a glance at them. “Yes, Milo, I’ve ten of them.” Milo glossed right over the joke. A sense of humor was never one of his strong points.

  “It’s a mannerism of yours that you’ve always had… quite distinctive.”

  “Yes, it is, I guess.”

  “But you’re not aware that you do it.”

  “Not always.”

  He appeared a little spaced out. “Milo? What is it?”
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  There was another uncomfortable pause and then, “Are you certain that you have no memory of that woman?” His voice had become strangely urgent. And the out-of-place use of the word memory disturbed me. Was I supposed to have known Alice? Of course, I had some impression of her but not in the real sense that Milo was suggesting. I asked him.

  He wiped his hand across his now moistening brow but said nothing. I stepped forward, closing the small gap between us. “Please, talk to me,” I said. Fresh alarm bells were chanting a different, more pressing tune.

  He pulled at the pointed collar of his black shirt, staring… thinking.

  I glared at him without blinking and pleaded once more.

  Milo sighed then turned. In two large strides, he reached the bedroom door. For a second, I believed I had failed and he was leaving. His hands held alternate doorjambs. He stretched his neck and looked in both directions, then returned to me.

  He grabbed my shoulders. “I don’t want to be right, Claudia,” he whispered to the point I could scarcely hear him, “but if I am, then I’m worried for you.”

  My heart plunged several inches and I asked him why.

  But again, Milo went quiet.

  “Milo, you’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll sort it out, I promise.” He said the words far too quickly and with an unmistakable fear I’d never heard from him before.

  But fear of what?

  Or more to the point… who?

  “Listen to me,” he went on. “If any of this gets seriously out of hand, if you want to know stuff or have questions, come and talk to me.”

  I could’ve easily planted Alice Polinski’s death, as well Milo’s cryptic behavior under the ‘seriously out of hand’ banner. “What do you mean?”

  “There are things, Claudia.”

  “Things?”