“Right. It was.” I search my memory, but as hard as I try I can’t remember the name. I do the alphabet thing, picturing every letter in my head to see if that jars anything loose. When I get to S, I know I’ve got it. “The Sutter Mansion,” I say.
“Here we go,” Rayne says, as she clicks the links. Scans of old newspaper pages fill the screen. “Holy crap, there was some crazy stuff going on in San Francisco back then. Look at this one: ‘Banker’s Boy Returned for $5,000 Reward.’” She glances down the article. “They spelled clue ‘clew.’ Here’s one where an army corporal was hanged. A rustler was shot out in Stockton, and there was a high-binder murder in Chinatown.”
“Focus, Rayne,” I say. I put my right hand on the mouse, moving the cursor to a tiny article that’s highlighted. “Look at this! From July 20, 1895: ‘Sutter Mansion Tragedy Trial.’” I read in a whisper. “ ‘The jury in the case of Lucio Barone, on trial for the attempted murder of Clarissa Catalani and second-degree murder of Alessandra Barone last New Year’s Eve, today returned a verdict of guilty on both counts.’”
“Oh my God!” Rayne says. “Is that it? Isn’t Clarissa you? Who was Lucio Barone?”
I sit stunned in my seat. “Her father. Alessandra’s.” I think back to the chaotic scene on the rooftop where Signore Barone is pointing to me as the cops surround me. “I didn’t do it. It was him all along. And he told the police that it was me.” My heart races as I turn this information over in my head, and relief floods my body. “If Griffon’s right, then Veronique must think it was me. That I was the one who killed her. But it wasn’t. And now I can prove it.”
“What’s that about attempted murder?” Rayne says, reading the article over again. “It must mean that her dad tried to kill you too.”
That stops me short. “I have no idea. I don’t remember anything about that. All I know is that I was up on the roof looking down at Alessandra’s body.”
“Well, if there was a trial, there’s got to be more information in here. Somewhere between January and July of that year.” She reaches over and types something else in the search box.
“Who was Paolo Sartori?” she asks, looking back at me as the results come up.
“Paolo was Alessandra’s boyfriend,” I say. “I don’t think I knew his last name.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t take her death well,” she says. She tilts the screen so I can see the article.
January 7, 1895
SUTTER MANSION TRAGEDY CONTINUES—SARTORI KILLS SELF WHILE DESPONDENT
Paolo Sartori, a member of the Young Masters Orchestra involved in the Sutter Mansion Tragedy, committed suicide at 11:20 last night by shooting himself in the head with a small pistol. He died soon after firing the shot. Despondency is suspected as the cause of Sartori’s self-destruction. After returning to the Black Swan Hotel last night, instead of going to his room, Sartori sat at the foot of the stairs, unfastened his coat and vest, placed the muzzle above his right eye, and pulled the trigger. Sartori was a native of Italy, 18 years of age. He was remaining in the City pending the outcome of the investigation into the death of a young woman at the Sutter Mansion some days past.
“Did you know him too?” Rayne asks as I finish reading.
“Yes,” I say quietly. It feels like I just lost them both. I remember the handsome boy with the black hair and the kind eyes. “He was so in love that he couldn’t live without her.”
Eighteen
Mom pokes her head into the living room. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “Veronique and Giacomo are due in about an hour.” If keeping your enemies close means inviting them to dinner on a Saturday night, then we’re all safe. Mom wants to thank Veronique for saving my life, and what better way to do it than with a giant pan of lasagna?
“Okay,” I say, looking up from the book that I’ve been pretending to study. I haven’t seen Veronique since the day of the accident—until my arm heals, not only cello practice, but all lessons are off. I have the pages from the newspaper printed and stuck in my desk drawer so that when the time comes, I can prove that I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s right there, in black and white.
Griffon glances up from his book and smiles at me. I feel a little bit guilty about not letting him in on all of my research, but I want to talk to Veronique first—to prove to him that I really can take care of myself, that I’m smart enough to figure things out on my own. He’s sprawled in the small chair by the fireplace, and all afternoon I’ve wanted to climb in there with him, but under Mom’s watchful eye we’ve stayed on opposite sides of the coffee table.
“I’ve got a pan in the oven,” she says. “Can you check on it in about ten minutes?”
“Sure,” I say.
“If you need to take it out, have Griffon help you,” she says, looking pointedly at the big black splint that covers most of my left arm. “It’s too heavy to lift with one hand.”
“Got it,” I say, inwardly begging her to leave the room already.
The minute I hear her door shut, I bounce off the couch and walk over to him, taking the book out of his hands.
“Um, I’m reading that,” he says, but the grin on his face says something different.
“Things Fall Apart,” I say, reading the jacket. “That’s a shame.”
“He’s a great Nigerian novelist,” he says. “Don’t mock.”
I lower myself onto the arm of the chair and lean toward Griffon, dropping the book onto the floor. “I would never mock great literature,” I say. “Plus, you’re not really reading it. All you’re doing is flipping pages every few seconds.”
“That’s how I read,” he says. He lowers his eyebrows like he’s hurt.
“Seriously?” I lean over and look at the book. The print is tiny. “Nobody can read that fast.”
Griffon shrugs his shoulders but doesn’t say anything, just touches my hand and laces my fingers carefully through his.
I pull my hand away, wincing a little with the pain the sudden movement causes. “Okay, smart boy,” I say. I walk over to Mom’s packed bookcase and run my finger over some of the titles. “Have you read this one?” I hold up Death in Venice.
Griffon nods. “Yep.”
I put it back and look at another title. “How about The Great Gatsby?”
He laughs. “Everyone’s read that.”
I scowl and turn back to the bookcase. “‘In the Penal Colony,’ by Kafka?”
“Yes,” he says. “Look, Cole, for a lot of the years I’ve been alive there wasn’t much else to do for fun but read.”
“I’ll find something.” I grab a thick, black book. “How about Poe?”
“Depends,” he says. “Which story?”
I open up to the middle of the book. ‘The Spectacles.’
“Ding! You win. I haven’t read that one.”
I look at him closely and can sense that he’s telling the truth. “Great.” I open the book wider to the second page of the story. “I’m going to give you ten seconds to look at this page, and then you have to tell me what’s on it.” I don’t know why I’m pushing it—maybe I still want evidence. I want being Akhet to be something I can see and touch, something physical and knowable. Provable.
He reaches for my hand again. “Are you sure you want to start this now?”
“What? Are you scared you can’t do it?”
He tilts his head in my direction. “Fine. Ten seconds.”