Page 9

A few hours later, Foley and Whitlock came by the house. Giovanni met them at the door. They chatted for a time and then were escorted to the den, where they found me dressed in silk pajamas and fuzzy slippers, sipping a cup of tea.

They both took a seat, saying nothing at first, as they offered awkward smiles in my direction like I was a delicate damsel in distress.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” Foley asked.

Kiddo.

To Foley, the word was a term of endearment.

To me, it was a bit hysterical, given I was five years his senior, but I appreciated the sentiment, nonetheless.

“I’m a bit numb, I guess,” I said. “The more I go over my visit with Dominic, the more upset I am with myself. I keep thinking I could have prevented him from killing himself somehow.”

“Dominic made his own choice,” Foley said. “You may have been there when it happened, which was unfortunate, but it was still his decision.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?”

“Because you have a heart.”

“I may have pushed him too hard, overwhelmed him during our conversation.”

“You didn’t hold the gun to his head. He made that decision all on his own.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we found a letter on the nightstand in his bedroom,” Whitlock said. “It was addressed to his daughter. He planned to take his own life today, and whether you were there or not, I’m inclined to believe it wouldn’t have made a difference. His mind was made up.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Foley said. “The fact you were there may have put it off for a couple of hours, but even if you figured out what he was planning, I doubt you could have stopped him.”

Hearing this information should have made me feel better.

It didn’t.

“What did the letter say?” I asked.

“It was short,” Foley said. “He wanted his daughter to know he loved her. He said not to be sad because he was in heaven, taking care of her mother. And then he mentioned something about the two of them watching over her for the rest of her life.”

I huffed an irritated, “Is that supposed to make her feel better about what he did?”

In this instance, it seemed like a selfish act, plain and simple.

She was grieving the death of her mother, and he doubled down on that grief by committing suicide.

Foley and Whitlock exchanged worrisome glances.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’re ... uhh, well, angry, which is understandable,” Foley said. “You’ve had one heck of a day. If you want to wait to talk about your visit with Dominic, we can, but maybe we should regroup tomorrow, talk about it then.”

Foley went quiet, waiting for my response.

He was right.

I was heated.

The tension inside me was rising like magma about to erupt.

I finished the last of my tea, setting the cup on the side table.

While I stewed on my thoughts, Giovanni entered the room, addressing the men as he said, “Can I offer you both a drink?”

“I’d love one, but I’m still on the clock,” Foley said.

Whitlock laughed. “After what we’ve been through today, I say we toss the clock out the window.”

“Great idea,” Giovanni said. “What can I get for you?”

“Bourbon on the rocks, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Giovanni nodded and turned toward Foley. “And you?”

Foley huffed a long sigh, as if wrestling with his decision. “I’ll have the same, I guess. Why not?”

Giovanni scooped up my empty mug and left the room, returning a minute later with three bourbons and a glass of sparkling wine. He handed the glass of bubbles to me, planting a kiss on my forehead as he said, “A bit of bubbly might do your stomach some good.”

It would also take some of the edge off.

We raised our glasses, and Giovanni said, “Here’s to solving this murder.”

Foley took a sip of bourbon and winced.

Lightweight.

“Toward the end of my visit with Dominic, he talked about Noelle’s love of tennis,” I said. “He even got up to get a picture so I could see her in her younger years. In the photo, she was holding a trophy she’d won at one of her matches. I thought he was doing all right, and then, he stared at the photo, and he lost it.”

“Lost it, how?”

“He started crying uncontrollably. I tried to offer him a few words of comfort, saying things like I understood what he was going through. It seemed to work for a moment, and then it backfired, and he bolted out of the room for a second time during our conversation. Seconds later, he spoke to me from down the hall. They were the last words he said before he committed suicide.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to let his daughter know he loved her, and he said he was sorry. In that moment, I knew what he was about to do, and I tried to save him. I raced toward his room. It was seconds before I got to him, but I was still too late. When I entered the room, he’d already sagged to the ground, the gun on the floor next to him, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood.”

Giovanni set his bourbon down and sat next to me, wrapping an arm around me as he said, “I’m so sorry, cara mia .”

“We’re sorry, too,” Whitlock said. “Doesn’t matter how many times something like that happens in our presence, it’s still one of the worst things a person can witness.”

“I still can’t help but wonder if something I said or he did had led to him pulling the trigger.” I rubbed my forehead. “But knowing he left a letter ... I guess it changes things. He planned to kill himself, and there was nothing I could have done to save him.”