Chapter 1 — The Purple Crayon

The little girl set a purple crayon beside my loaded pistol.

“Mister, can I borrow you tomorrow?”

Carbone stopped halfway through explaining which warehouse should burn first.

Around my conference table, men who had ordered killings without losing their appetites stared at a child in a yellow dress. Her white shoes were scuffed at the toes. One sock had slipped below her heel.

She waited for my answer.

I moved the pistol into the drawer beneath my chair and locked it.

“How did you get in here?”

“The door was open.”

It wasn’t supposed to be.

Behind her, Marco Ricci stood against the wall with his hands folded. For ten years, he had anticipated problems before other men recognized them.

Now he was watching the child without moving.

I raised one finger.

Chairs scraped backward.

“Anthony,” Carbone said, “we haven’t settled Queens.”

“We’re finished for tonight.”

Julian Sarto remained seated at my right.

At seventy, he still dressed as though someone might photograph him leaving a courthouse. He glanced at the crayon, then at the little girl.

“Someone should find her mother.”

“I’m about to.”

He studied me for another moment before rising.

Marco was last to leave. The girl looked up at him, and something passed across his face too quickly for me to name.

Then a woman rushed through the doorway.

“Mr. Moretti. God, I’m so sorry.”

Maria Alvarez. One of the housekeepers.

She stopped beside the child, breathless, her cleaning apron still tied around her waist.

“I told her to stay in the laundry room. I only went upstairs to change the towels.”

Her knees bent.

“Stand up,” I said.

She froze.

“You don’t need to kneel.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

That answer stayed with me.

The little girl tugged her apron.

“Mama, I’m asking him.”

“You cannot ask Mr. Moretti for things.”

“Why?”

Maria looked at the locked drawer.

I pushed my chair back.

“What is your name?”

“Sophia.”

“How old are you?”

She held up three fingers, examined them, then used her other hand to straighten the smallest.

“Three.”

“And what exactly do you want to borrow?”

“You.”

Maria closed her eyes.

“I can explain.”

“I’d like her to explain first.”

Sophia pulled at the chair across from mine. It barely moved. I came around the table and held it steady while she climbed onto the seat.

Her feet didn’t reach the floor.

“Tomorrow we have Family Day,” she said. “Evan is bringing his daddy. Rosie is bringing her grandpa.”

“You could bring your mother.”

“Mama has to work.”

Maria spoke quickly.

“I could have requested the morning off. I didn’t realize she was still upset about it.”

Sophia looked down at her hands.

“My daddy died.”

The room became very quiet.

“He doesn’t come to school anymore.”

I glanced at Maria.

“Eight months ago,” she said. “His name was Miguel.”

I had approved her employment five months earlier. Reliable references, no disciplinary issues, a small apartment in Brooklyn.

I remembered nothing about a husband.

Sophia rubbed a thumbnail against the table.

“Mama said we could stay home.”

“I said we could do something together afterward,” Maria corrected gently.

“But then I wouldn’t get to show my picture.”

“What picture?” I asked.

“My family picture. We made them.”

“And you want me to go with you?”

She nodded.

“Why me?”

She examined my face with unsettling seriousness.

“You tell people what to do.”

“That’s true.”

“So you can tell them you’re coming.”

Maria laid a hand on the back of Sophia’s chair.

“Sweetheart, Mr. Moretti is very busy.”

“What happens at Family Day?” I asked.

Maria stopped.

Sophia sat straighter.

“We show pictures. And paint. Then we can go to the park.”

“The park is part of school?”

“No. That’s after.”

“I see.”

“There are swings.”

“Anything else?”

She considered what sounded like an important contractual question.

“Strawberry ice cream.”

Maria shook her head.

“She’s been planning this all week. Please don’t feel you have to—”

“What time?”

“Nine,” Sophia said immediately.

I looked at Maria.

“The classroom opens at nine,” she confirmed. “But you really don’t need to rearrange anything. I’ll speak to her teacher.”

I pressed the intercom.

“Marco.”

He appeared almost at once.

“Clear tomorrow morning.”

His eyes moved toward Sophia.

“The whole morning?”

“And the afternoon.”

“We have the noon meeting.”

“Move it.”

“Carbone won’t like that.”

“Then you’ll have something in common.”

Sophia smiled.

It was a small smile at first, as though she wasn’t certain she had understood.

“You’re coming?”

“Yes.”

“With us?”

“Yes.”

She slid off the chair and hurried to her mother.

Maria caught her before she could trip over the loose sock.

“Mr. Moretti, I don’t know what to say.”

“You can tell me why your daughter was left in a laundry room.”

Her smile vanished.

“The sitter canceled. My sister has the flu. I couldn’t miss another shift.”

“You’ve missed shifts?”

“Two. When Sophia was sick.”

“Were you warned about that?”

She hesitated.

“Mrs. Donnelly said it couldn’t become a habit.”

I looked at Marco.

“Speak to Donnelly. Staff with emergencies come to her, and she finds a workable arrangement. Children don’t get hidden between washing machines.”

Maria’s face tightened.

“Please don’t fire her because of me.”

“I’m giving her instructions.”

Sophia retrieved her crayon.

“You need instructions too.”

Marco turned his head away.

I looked down at her.

“Apparently.”

“Wear regular clothes.”

I glanced at my suit.

“These are regular clothes.”

“No. Those are funeral clothes.”

Maria made a strangled sound.

“Sophia.”

“What?”

I looked at Marco.

His mouth was firmly closed, but his shoulders had moved.

“Something amusing?”

“No.”

“You’ve developed a cough.”

“I’ll get it checked.”

Sophia pointed the crayon at me.

“You have to smile when we take the picture.”

“I know how to smile.”

She waited.

I tried.

Her expression became concerned.

“Not like that.”

For the first time that evening, Maria laughed.

She stopped almost immediately, as though she had broken something expensive.

I pretended not to notice.

“Marco will confirm the arrangements with you,” I said. “And someone will bring you both home tonight.”

“I can take the train.”

“I know. Someone will bring you home anyway.”

Maria lifted Sophia onto her hip.

The girl leaned over her mother’s shoulder.

“Nine,” she reminded me.

“I heard you.”

“And regular clothes.”

“I heard that too.”

Marco stepped aside to let them pass.

As Maria reached the doorway, he touched her elbow.

“You should have called me.”

It was quiet. Familiar. Irritated in a way employees rarely allowed themselves to be with one another in my house.

Maria looked at him.

“You would have told me not to come.”

“Because she shouldn’t have been—”

He stopped when he saw me watching.

Sophia rested her cheek against Maria’s shoulder. She looked comfortable with Marco beside them. Too comfortable for a child seeing her mother’s employer’s assistant.

“Maria,” I said. “Wait in the sitting room.”

Her hand tightened beneath Sophia’s legs.

Marco shut the conference-room door after them.

I remained standing.

“How long have you known my housekeeper?”

His usual answer would have come before I finished the question.

This one didn’t.

“Anthony—”

“How long?”

“Thirty-two years.”

I looked toward the door.

Then back at him.

“That’s her age.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why.”

Marco drew a breath.

“Because Maria is my sister.”