The woman who opened the door to Room 714 looked at Amara as if the sight of her caused physical pain.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Chiara Greco was in her early sixties, silver beginning at the temples of dark hair she wore pulled back. Her face was composed, but her hands gave her away. One gripped the door too tightly. She wore Chanel No. 5. Amara noticed because Folake wore it too.
The coincidence lodged somewhere uncomfortable.
“Amara,” Chiara said.
Not Ms. Okonkwo. Not the auditor.
Amara.
“You know me.”
Chiara stepped aside. “Come in.”
The room was orderly in the way hotel rooms became when people were trying not to admit how long they intended to stay. A suitcase stood closed near the wall. Papers lay neatly on the desk. No photographs. Amara remained standing.
“Paolo Bellini told me you have the seventh letter.”
“I do.”
“I need it for the audit.”
Chiara’s mouth changed slightly. “Of course you would begin there.”
“Where should I begin?”
“With being angry that everybody in this room knows more about you than you do.”
Amara went cold.
“What does that mean?”
Chiara looked away.
“No. Don’t do that.” Amara’s voice sharpened. “You invited me here. Say what you mean.”
Chiara faced her again. For a moment Amara thought she would say it. Instead she crossed to the desk and took out an envelope.
“This is a certified copy of Matteo’s seventh letter. You may read it here. You may not take it yet.”
“Why?”
“Because the letter contains information that does not belong only to your audit.”
Amara almost laughed. “Everything seems to contain information people have decided I am not allowed to have.”
Pain moved across Chiara’s face.
“You are right.”
That answer unsettled her more than an excuse would have. Amara opened the envelope. Matteo’s handwriting covered four pages.
The first page was practical. Bellini had copies. The port evidence should go to regulators if Matteo disappeared. Chiara was not to negotiate with Ade. The second page was about Dante.
Take him to Milan. Do not let him grow up believing this is his war. Amara swallowed and kept reading. The third page changed everything.
And if the doctor is right and the baby comes safely, do not let Ade know there is another child. I hate writing this. I hate asking you to be afraid before she is even born. But if he believes the copies die with me, he has no reason to look for her.
She.
Amara’s fingers tightened on the paper. Chiara stood across the room, silent. The final paragraph blurred before Amara forced herself to focus.
I know you think I am ridiculous for calling her my daughter already. Let me be ridiculous. If she is a girl, I still like Amara. It means grace. We may need some. Amara stopped breathing.
There were moments when the mind protected itself by refusing to connect facts that were already connected.
Her name.
Her age.
The convent.
Folake’s face at dinner. Chiara saying Amara as though she had said it before. Amara lowered the letter.
“Who was the baby?”
Chiara closed her eyes.
When she opened them, there was nowhere left to hide.
“You.”