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Renata

July 19, 1992

Capri

Renata was at a party, above the Via Tragara, in an apartment that had views of Monte Solaro and the Marina Piccola. From the farthest corner of the balcony, she could see the outline of the villa, domed and white, nestled between the pines.

It was her first time leaving Ciro with a stranger. He had only just turned three.

Three and a half years ago, she had arrived on the island without resources, without a plan. Pregnant and far from home, escaping a relationship that had turned suddenly and irreversibly violent, Renata only wanted to blend in, to hide. But she stood out on Capri. She was from the Alto Adige, on the border of Italy and Austria. Blond, tall, with a light smattering of freckles across her pale skin, she didn’t look like the southern Italians who worked and lived on the island year-round. She didn’t sound like them either. Even if it was occasionally lonely being so isolated, Renata was used to it. She had been alone since both of her parents died in a car crash when she was just out of high school.

But over time—once she was sure she was safe, that Ciro’s father wouldn’t follow her—she began to enjoy the gulf her appearance created between herself and the other year-round residents of Capri. And her looks were probably why they hired her, the family that owned the villa. Because she was like them. Teutonic. Familiar. There were photos of them that hung on the walls of the villa, but they never visited. She never even spoke with them. There was a man in Munich who called her on the first of every month, usually to say, There are no plans to open the house at this time.

He had been impressed when she replied, once, in German.

Of course, he had said, you are from the Südtirol! The implication was clear: We can trust you.

She never bothered to tell them about her pregnancy. There was no need. Ciro was born in May. The villa was only ever opened for one week in July, for the Lingates. And the Lingates, for the most part, were easy. They never dined at home. They slept most of the day. All they required was breakfast and an aperitif. Fresh towels. Fresh flowers. And it was strange to see the house open, occupied, alive. The rest of the year, the furniture remained under drop cloths. She moved from room to room, airing each one out, wiping down the fine pollen that blew off the pine trees, letting Ciro totter behind her.

Tonight, the daughter of the groundskeeper was watching him.

Renata hadn’t managed to meet many people on the island. At first, she was too afraid that Ciro’s father might find out. She’s here! It was an unfounded fear, but it haunted her every time someone rang the bell at the entrance to the villa.

It was easy, almost too easy, to keep to herself. She arranged the delivery of groceries, she locked herself inside the walls. But years had passed without incident. And Ciro was old enough now that she knew he would need friends, that she would, too. When the woman who delivered the groceries to the villa invited her to the party tonight, she said yes.

In two days, the Lingates would leave, and she would go back to her routine: open, wipe, close, open, wipe, close. It was safe. Meditative. Although perhaps there would be more socializing like this during the shoulder season.

Renata liked the idea.

At three in the morning, the party began to wind down. The girl who had invited her had left an hour ago, asking, before she did, if Renata wanted to come along to another party, heard about by word of mouth, tossed off casually by a friend.

Renata declined. She stayed. Now she left. She went into the night and began her zigzagging walk down from the upper reaches of the island to the main town.

Somewhere between the party and the Piazzetta, Renata remembered a bag of pastries. The Lingates had barely touched their breakfast, and she had set aside the leftover dolci for Ciro. Ciro, who loved sweets. Ciro, who would be so surprised by the treats when he woke up early the next morning. They would be an apology for leaving him with the sitter, although he’d already been in bed when she left.

It would only take her a minute to slip into the villa’s kitchen. The family would be asleep by now anyway. Or out, which might be better. She could see the sweets sitting on the counter where she had left them, the flaky pastry rolls and the ones filled with sweetened fresh cream.

Such castoffs were another benefit of the job.

On her walk back to the villa, Renata thought about how lucky she was. Other young people at the party complained about high season, the crowding. About how demanding their work was at the hotels or restaurants or even in other private villas. Renata was the caretaker of a thing that didn’t need caretaking. The villa was built on old Roman foundations. She could neither preserve it nor damage it. There was a relief in that, knowing it would outlast her.

When she reached the gate to the villa, she hesitated.

Privacy, she had been told when she was hired, was integral to the job. Discretion. She was violating that rule. So she waited, she listened. She heard only the hum of night insects. And when she pushed open the thick wooden door, there was nothing but silence. The lights in the main house were off. The moon illuminated the allée of columns. With the sun down, the garden no longer smelled of pine and fig, but something meatier, something damp and animal.

She slipped into the foyer. Then into the kitchen. In the darkness, she felt around for the bag of dolci. It was where she had left it, under the windows that looked toward the pool. And there, at the bottom of the garden, in the moonlight, she saw the hazy outline of a body, a red dress, a shock of blond hair.

Sarah.

Only the scene made no sense. Sarah was on the ground, her upper body listing to one side, her dress pooling around her. The way her arms flopped against her body made her look like a broken doll.

The tension between Sarah and her husband had been unbearable all week. A kind of electricity that made Renata’s hair stand up at the nape of her neck. The tone of voice, the short, easy frustrations, were familiar, and she had seen them tip, quickly, permanently, into something worse.

It was possible Sarah had drunk too much. Had fought with Richard. Had passed out in the garden. But women, Renata knew, have a sixth sense about these things. And something about Sarah’s body looked wrong.

Renata stepped into the garden.

As she got closer to the cliffs, Renata paused. Earlier in the evening, she had selected a red dress from her closet, the choice driven by the way the red of Sarah’s dress accentuated her tan, the flush of her cheeks. But now Renata looked down, embarrassed by the decision. She imagined Sarah waking up and seeing that they matched; she imagined the coincidence making her uncomfortable. Like Renata was trying to be her.

Renata looked back at the villa and noticed a light on in Richard and Sarah’s room. Yes. They must have fought. They must have come home from their dinner on the Punta Massullo and argued. From the way Sarah’s body looked, Renata worried they had done more than argue.

Sarah would forgive her the cheap imitation of the dress. She walked quickly.

Up close, Sarah was conscious, her eyes open—dazed but blinking. And as soon as she managed to focus, she opened her mouth, tried to speak. But no sound came out, only a hiss of air. Renata dropped to her knees.

“Where are you hurt?” she asked.

Sarah tried to push off the ground with her hands but couldn’t.

“They’ll be back,” Sarah finally said, her voice hoarse.

Renata looked over Sarah’s body; she tried to locate a fracture, a cut, the source of the injury. There were smears of blood on her arms and along her cheek, and when Sarah turned her head to try to see behind her, Renata saw it, the way the back of her head was matted with blood. She needed a hospital. Soon.

“Okay.” Renata wrapped an arm under Sarah’s to help her up. “Can you stand?”

Sarah seemed unsteady, but nodded. She was stronger now, now that help had arrived.

“Renata—”

Sarah said her name in a way that made Renata look behind her. But still, they were alone. No noise came from the villa.

“Who did this to you?” Renata asked. “Did Richard?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. Then: “No. Not him. All of them.”

Renata had watched them leave the villa that night. Naomi Lingate was already drunk, and Marcus Lingate was, as usual, ignoring the tensions that simmered between his brother and sister-in-law. Richard limped around the kitchen and through the loggia. But Renata hadn’t heard any ill words, any threats issued.

What had happened to the family in the intervening hours?

“Can you walk?” Renata asked.

Sarah took two tentative steps on her own. She managed.

“Not far. But yes.”

Renata pointed to the stone wall at the edge of the garden, where the fig trees grew in low, full tufts against the ground, their leaves a thick camouflage.

“All right,” she said, “go back along the wall until you reach the door to my house. Start walking now. I’ll be right behind you.”

Sarah did as she was told, and although her steps were halting at first, she seemed to gain confidence with every bit of progress she made. Until, finally, she was nearly hidden from view.

Renata looked down at the blood Sarah had spread across the rocks and noticed something on the flagstones, something gold and glinting in the light. She bent and picked it up—they were Sarah’s wedding rings, the diamond and the band. She instinctively reached to put them in a pocket, but since the dress had none, she slipped them onto her ring finger.

There would be, she knew, repercussions for this. She might lose her job. The Lingates might accuse her of lying about what she had seen. Her help might only make things between Richard and Sarah worse. But she didn’t have a choice. The woman was injured, nearly dead. She had been left alone in the garden while the family hid in the house, while her husband was in their bedroom, awake.

No, she had done the right thing. She had done the only thing.

Renata checked that the rings were tight on her finger. They were. And then, before she could follow Sarah, she heard the sound of soft, padding footsteps on the lawn. There wasn’t time to turn before she felt the hands on her. But they weren’t the large hands of Richard or Marcus; they were small, with sharp nails and surprising strength. Hands that were pushing her, closer and closer to the low stone wall, to the cliff that fell away below.

“Naomi,” she said. “Naomi, stop!”

But when Renata managed to catch a glimpse of Naomi’s face in the moonlight, she could tell—Naomi wasn’t there. Her eyes were glassy pools, her mouth parted. She didn’t even recognize her. All she saw was the red dress, the blond hair. It was as if Naomi was sleepwalking, acting out a deep, seamless nightmare.

Up at the villa behind them, Renata also saw a shadow, the outline of someone standing, alone, in the window. Instinctively, she knew it wasn’t Richard. Richard, whose body was slight, wiry. No, it was Marcus. And before she could call out for his help, before she could say anything, Naomi forced her over the edge of the low stone wall and onto the cliffs below.

It was the last thing she remembered: the feeling of Naomi’s hands against her back. And then the rocky ledge against her knees. The ledge that made her whole body buckle. After that, there was only the sea air, pulling her farther and farther down, until there was nothing.

Nothing at all.