“I know.”
“For security.”
“I know.”
“Four buildings have direct sightlines into this bedroom.”
“I know.”
“Dr. Prentiss says outside air could make things worse.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
I picked up my bucket.
Before leaving, I switched off the ceramic diffuser on his mantel.
The heavy sandalwood scent slowly faded.
“You always do that,” Emilio said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Anything that has to smell that strong is covering something.”
Then I walked out.
Three nights later, I discovered that Emilio had listened.
He had moved into the conservatory.
It was the only room in Corsaro House where fresh air actually came from outside.
Glass walls surrounded citrus trees and orchids.
Morning sunlight poured across the marble floor.
When I entered, his skin already looked different.
Not healthy.
But less gray.
Less dead.
More importantly, he had stopped asking me to stay.
Then footsteps sounded behind me.
Rafe Corsaro entered with two attorneys.
Emilio’s younger brother carried a leather folder under one arm.
The first page was turned outward.
Temporary authorization papers.
My stomach tightened.
Three nights earlier, Emilio had looked too sick to argue with anyone.
That morning, sitting beneath real sunlight for the first time in months, he looked strong enough to understand exactly what his brother wanted him to sign.
