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Joe invites the detectives into the kitchen. Mom, Dad, and Connie follow us. Joe turns to them and says, “I’ll take it from here,” closing the kitchen door.

“Please,” Joe says, offering them a seat at our kitchen table.

The next day,Joe meets me after work at our parents’ house. We walk in lockstep in silence to Uncle Louie’s as the brightautumn sun sinks in the sky. A great night for a run around the lake, a brisk walk at the beach, or collecting evidence for the FBI.

The large, empty canvas duffel bag on my shoulder flaps against me like the sail on a clam dinghy. I plan to fill it with checkbooks, files, and paperwork that will be useful to the FBI as they sort out Louie Capodimonte’s business dealings.

“I appreciate your help, Joe.” This is a new phase in my relationship with my brother. I need his professional expertise.

“Did you have any idea about Uncle Louie?”

“None.” I lie to my brother because I remain loyal to Uncle Louie because he was loyal to me. But I can’t avoid the truth entirely. “Uncle Louie told me some things before he died.”

“You can’t lie to the FBI, Jess. Did you handle the books?”

“No.” I answered all the questions Detective Campovilla asked me honestly. Uncle Louie may have had an accountant, but the truth is, he kept his figures in his head, where only he had access to them. I told the FBI that Uncle Louie had his own way of doing business and I was not privy to it.

“You didn’t go to the bank for him?”

“Nope.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Joe says kindly.

I can see that my brother is worried for me. “Would I be living in our parents’ basement had there been some grand financial scheme here? Uncle Louie liked money. He liked making it. That just makes him a regular American businessman.”

“You knew him better than I did.”

“Uncle Louie loved marble. It connected him to Italy.”

“What was working with him like?” Joe asks. “You know, day to day.”

“Uncle Louie and I were like mismatched detectives in a 1990s crime show on the verge of cancellation. We had an intergenerationalfriendship. He remembered the Beatles onEd Sullivan. I remembered when Taylor Swift dated Harry Styles. I may have ridden shotgun in the Impala for sixteen years, but I was never his equal. Cap Marble and Stone was his baby. It wasn’t like he’d go off for a couple of weeks and hand the business over to me. He’d close down when he went to Florida. But at the end, when he was in the hospital, he made it clear that he wanted me to take over.”

Joe stops. “Do you want the business?”

“Right now, I just miss Uncle Louie.”

I follow Joe up the yellow brick walkway at Aunt Lil’s. Joe turns to me and says, “I will handle Aunt Lil. You know what you need to do.” Joe tries the door; it’s open. “Aunt Lil?” he calls out.

Aunt Lil pokes her head out from the kitchen at the end of the hallway. “Back here,” she says.

The cheerful kitchen is done in white subway tiles with black trim. The appliances are apple red. The kitchen table is cherrywood, with seating for four. Aunt Lil is wearing a lounge robe in teal blue with matching slippers.

“I wish I still smoked. I hate the morning after. Coffee?” she offers.

“Sure,” Joe says.

“I’m good, Aunt Lil.” I slip the duffel bag onto the back of the chair. “May I use the powder room?”

My aunt waves to the door next to the kitchen.

The powder room off the kitchen has a bold wallpaper of palm fronds, green on white, an homage to Miami. Italian American interior décor is often inspired by where we vacation. That may be why you often find our interior decoration in the palette of saltwater taffy and mai tai umbrellas.

I slide the medicine cabinet open. Uncle Louie wasn’t kidding. Aunt Lil has the ultimate vintage Avon collection. The narrowshelves are neatly loaded with finger-sized delicate opaline, frilly porcelain, and milk glass bottles. There are unopened boxes of perfume. I flush the toilet to cover the sound of the sliding door of the medicine chest. I open the boxes quickly, one at a time, searching for the hard drive. Summer Dew, Somewhere, Here’s My Heart, Field of Flowers. I could be here all day in miniature hell. I can’t remember if Uncle Louie said Avon’s Sunsplash or Hayride, but it doesn’t matter, because there’s no hard drive in any of them. I’m taking too long in here! I reach for a box that says Sweet Honesty, open it, and peer inside. Boom, the hard drive. How’s that for irony?

“Everything all right in there?” Lil asks from outside the door.

“I’ll be out in a second.” I place the box back on the shelf, slip the hard drive into my pocket, and gently close the medicine cabinet.