“They won’t find that,” he says firmly.
“It would help,” she says, “if you tell me everything from the beginning.”
And so he does what she asks. He tells her everything while she quietly jots down notes on her yellow legal pad. He talks about his relationship with Suzette, the things he did to help Martha, and finally working in the yard yesterday while Jonathan was being murdered.
“I did nothing,” he insists. “Nothing. Why would they think I would kill him?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but Cecelia seems to be truly considering it. She has clearly grown up to be a very thoughtful young woman. I wonder if Ada will turn out like her.
Of course, if her father gets locked up in prison, that’s going to mess her up forever.
“I’ll be honest with you, Enzo,” Cecelia finally says. “I believe it might have something to do with Dario Fontana.”
At the mention of that name, all the color leaves Enzo’s face. “What?” he says.
“My understanding”—Cecelia glances over at Ramirez, who nods—“is that Detective Willard has done some digging into your past, before you came to this country. And that is a name that has come up.”
I’ve never heard the name before in my life. So it’s disturbing that the man I have been married to for over a decade has such a violent reaction to it.
“Who is Dario Fontana?” I ask him.
“That was a long time ago,” he chokes out.
Cecelia’s voice is firm, leaving no room for bullshit. “Not that long.”
“Enzo?” I say.
He is squeezing his knees so hard that his knuckles are white. “Dario was my sister’s husband.”
His sister’s husband. Okay, now it makes sense that the name upset him so much. Antonia was abused by her husband for many years, until he finally ended up killing her. He was also a man with dangerous mobster ties, and when Enzo took his vengeance, he immediately had to leave the country. I can understand why he never wanted to say the man’s name. But what I don’t understand is why Cecelia has brought him up.
“He wasn’t just that,” Cecelia says. “We need to be honest about the situation we’re dealing with.”
Enzo shoots me a pained look. “Millie, would you leave us for a moment?”
Is he joking with me? Does he really think I would leave right now?
“No way,” I say sharply. “What is it that you don’t want me to know?”
“Enzo,” Ramirez says. “Just tell your wife the truth.”
Enzo mumbles something under his breath. There is no way I am leaving this room without finding out what he doesn’t want me to know.
“Enzo?” I say again.
“Okay. Okay.” He clenches his hands into fists. “I worked for him. I worked for Dario Fontana. Okay?”
My jaw drops. That is a piece of the puzzle I never heard before. Enzo worked for the guy who used to beat up on his sister? Not only that, but from what I understood, the man was a mobster. So if Enzo worked for him…
“I was a kid,” he says. “I was sixteen when I started working for Dario. I didn’t know who he really was. By the time I realized…”
“How many years did you work for him?” Cecelia presses him.
Enzo looks completely miserable having this conversation. “Eight years.”
“And when you were working for him, what did you do for him?”
Enzo closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “Please stop. I… I understand. This is bad. I get it.”
What did Enzo do for this mobster?
“Okay,” Cecelia concedes. “We don’t have to talk about this right now. But I need you to see what we are dealing with. If this were to come up in a courtroom…”
“Yes. I understand.”
“I will fight for you,” she says. “But I don’t want to hear lies, Enzo. I can’t do a thing for you if you lie to my face. You have to tell me everything. You have to be completely honest so I can protect you.”
He looks her straight in the eyes. “I did not kill Jonathan Lowell. You have my word.”
“Fine,” she says. “But if you didn’t, then who did?”
“Suzette Lowell,” I blurt out. That has been the thought in my head since the moment I saw that dead body lying on the floor. Suzette never seemed to respect or even like her husband. My first instinct was that she finally killed him.
“But how?” Ramirez asks. “That neighbor—she swears Suzette was out all day.”
“Does she have an alibi?” I ask.
“No alibi, no. But it’s not like this cul-de-sac is walkable. She would’ve had to come home with her car. It would have been noticeable.”
