By My Hand by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

forth—served to complete a fairly comical picture.
    Maione, to break the tension, approached her and respectfully extended his hand.
    â€œSister, our condolences for your loss.”
    After a moment’s hesitation, the nun offered him her hand and the brigadier bowed to kiss it. He found himself touching a small thing clammy with sweat, whose stubby fingers barely protruded from the sleeve of the black habit, and he had to overcome a surge of disgust and the temptation to drop it after a quick squeeze. He got away with miming a kiss an inch or so above the hand, and then he took a quick step back, abandoning the field to Ricciardi. Maione had been excessively heroic as it was, and now he was done.
    â€œSister, we sent an officer yesterday to inform you of what had happened at your sister’s home.”
    â€œYes, and just in time, because I was about to take Benedetta back to her parents. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to keep the child here with me; I let her sleep on a cot in my room. She’s always happy to stay, we’re very close.”
    Ricciardi studied the nun’s face, trying to read her emotions.
    â€œCould you tell us about any of your sister and your brother-in-law’s acquaintances? Anything that could put us on the right track . . .”
    â€œI don’t know a thing about my sister and her husband’s life. He was an ambitious man, he thought about nothing but his work, and they didn’t do a lot of socializing. I was in charge of the child and her education, in collaboration with my sister. That’s all.”
    The shrill sound of her voice, childish and earsplitting, contrasted with the adult harshness of her words. Ricciardi persisted.
    â€œBut your sister might have told you something in confidence, I don’t know, she might have talked to you about threats or disagreements that she or her husband may have had with someone.”
    The nun went on wobbling, and then said:
    â€œCommissario, I had nothing to do with the affairs of my sister and her husband. I saw him rarely, and then only in passing; he was always at work, as I told you. And since my sister lived very much in his shadow, I never discussed anything with him but a single topic: my niece. And her education.”
    Ricciardi met the nun’s gaze and held it. Maione dragged his foot over the floor, like a restless mule.
    â€œWould I be mistaken if I guessed that you didn’t much like your brother-in-law, Sister?”
    The nun’s round red face opened up in a sad smile.
    â€œTo dislike someone you have to know them, Commissario. And I doubt I saw my brother-in-law more than four or five times in all. What with the party assemblies and his work for the militia, he was never home. And now he’s dead, and it’s his fault that my poor sister is dead, too, and my niece will now have no one but me, a nun.”
    Ricciardi focused on this last sentence.
    â€œWhy do you say ‘it’s his fault’?”
    Sister Veronica held his gaze.
    â€œHe was the man of the household; he was the important one. As I told you, my sister was nothing more than a shadow in their home. Whoever it was, you can be certain that they had it in for him, and if they killed my sister, too, it’s only because she happened to be in the way. Your officer yesterday told me something about how they were found: my poor Costanza merely answered the door. The one they wanted was him.”
    The wind reverberated in the garden. The temperature in the room seemed to go down even further.
    â€œWhat are you going to do now, with your niece?” Ricciardi asked. “What are you going to tell her?”
    The nun looked out the window.
    â€œShe’s a strong little girl. I’ll tell her that her parents have gone away on a trip, and then little by little I’ll give her some hints, and eventually I’ll tell her that they were both killed in an accident, something