I unfolded the piece of paper, unbearably curious to find out what poem Luca would think relevant to me, and whether I would consider it an insult or a compliment.

‘Invictus’ by William Ernest Henley. The poem wasn’t familiar to me, but then again, few were. Luca had handwritten the words in small black script. It felt … personal. I shook the thought away and read the first line aloud.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

By the time I reached the final verse, my arms were covered in goosebumps.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

I read the poem three times, Evelina Falcone’s oil painting hanging over me, her gaze on the back of my neck. Another one of my father’s victims, another blot on his soul.

In my hands, the words seemed to grow bigger and bigger.

I understood.

I understood then why Luca had chosen this poem the day after Valentino had handed me my first official target.

Subtle, Luca. Real subtle.

That night, as I drifted off, those words swam around in my head, beside visions of dark eyes and gold teeth.

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

Five days.

Five days and everything would change.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WHEREABOUTS

I was attempting to instil my artistic flourish on a sketch of the humble mitochondrion when the familiar beep of the school intercom sounded. The flurried scratching ceased as twenty pencils disengaged from their diagrams.

‘Can Sophie Gracewell please report to the principal’s office immediately.’

I could feel the colour draining from my face, the stares of my classmates. A small chorus of oooohs came from the back of the room.

Ms Henderson, my biology teacher, glared at me over her glasses. ‘You’d better go, Sophie.’

I rolled my shoulders back and pushed my chair from the desk, trying not to appear worried. I walked, a lot slower than I could have, out the door and down the corridor to the principal’s office, praying that whatever was bringing me there was something minor.

The secretary was already on her feet, ushering me into the office, her cheeks flushed bright pink as she muttered her own chorus of ‘Come on, come on, hurry up now,’ her hands flapping around me as if the slight breeze would move me faster.

‘Ms Gracewell, we meet again.’

Oh, God, kill me now.

‘Detective Medina. Detective Comisky.’ I nodded curtly to each of them, keeping my smile tight, all the panic inside me corseting me in. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Is it?’ said Comisky, his eyes slitting. He was leaning back against the desk. His suit was the colour of vomit. He gestured for me to sit. I sidled around Medina, who was hunched by a disused bookcase, and did as I was told, all too aware that by having the detectives standing above me, I was giving up vital higher ground.

I was also keenly aware that Principal Campbell was outside the door with her ear pressed up against the glass. She obviously had yet to be told that frosted glass is, in fact, still somewhat transparent.

‘Yes,’ I said, eyeing them both up. ‘Of course it’s a surprise.’ I lifted my chin and met their penetrative stares with my own. I had nothing to hide.

More or less.

‘We were sorry to hear about your mother,’ Medina said, flicking an affected glance at his partner. His eyes were softer, his stance a little more relaxed.

‘Is that why you’re here?’ I asked. ‘Because I told the detectives working the diner case that I don’t know any more than they do, and before you ask, no, I haven’t seen or heard from my uncle since it happened.’

Oh, and the next time I see him, I’ll be killing him. Kk?

Comisky shook his head, the movement bringing the faintest jiggle to his cheeks. ‘No, Ms Gracewell, that’s not why we’re here.’

I channelled Valentino and kept my features smooth.

‘Where are you staying, Sophie?’ Comisky asked, dispensing with the formalities. His big grey moustache was twitching in anticipation. Honestly, why do people grow moustaches in the first place? Do they set out to look like human terriers or does the look just sneak up on them?

‘With my friend,’ I said. ‘Until the guardianship paperwork gets sorted out. What with my uncle still being away …’ I shrugged, and then decided to try out the old puppy-dog-eyes routine to diminish my underlying aura of sarcasm.

Medina hunkered down until we were at eye level. I had the sudden urge to jump out the window and bolt all the way back to Evelina.

‘Ms Gracewell,’ he said carefully, ‘I am going to ask you a question now, and I want to make you very aware that if you don’t answer it one hundred per cent honestly, then you will be obstructing the course of justice and there will be consequences.’

My palms were starting to sweat. I pressed them together and tried to keep my movements very still. My brain was exploding with theories. I tried not to let it show. Did they know about Libero? Did they know what I was going to do on Saturday? Had the Falcones been arrested?

‘Are you listening, Sophie?’ Comisky asked, over Medina’s shoulder. He shoved himself away from the desk and plodded over to me. ‘Will you pay careful attention to what we’re saying?’ He looked like a very angry, very stout grandfather. But not the sweet kind. The I-drink-way-too-much-at-family-gatherings-and-shake-my-cane-at-children kind.