Whispering Bones by Rita Vetere

seconds before the infant had been whisked away by the nuns.
    Several weeks later, she had returned to the city with her grandmother. From that day forward, neither she nor her grandmother brought up the subject of the daughter she had birthed. No, they had never spoken of the matter again, but Anna remembered. She remembered it all. Now she felt sure all the years of suppressing her emotions had manifested itself in the terrifying nightmare she’d experienced tonight. Even though she’d pushed the memory of her daughter far back into her psyche, it had lurked there, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.
    A sudden weariness overcame her, an exhaustion that drained her. She crawled into bed, leaving all the lights burning. For the next two hours, she remained awake, not daring to close her eyes, in case the nightmare returned. Sometime before sunup, unable to stave off sleep any longer, she drifted off.
    * * * *
    At eight in the morning, the blat-blat-blat of her alarm sounded and Anna started awake. Immediately, the memory of what had happened the previous night rolled through her. She shuddered as the image of the corpse-like child loomed in her mind. After a few moments, though, the daylight filtering through the curtains brought with it the reassurance it had only been a nightmare, nothing more. The awful dream seemed to lose some of its potency in the bright light of day.
    She tossed back the covers and headed to the bathroom to shower. The steamy water rolling over her dissolved the remnants of her nightmare, and she concentrated instead on her meeting with Falcone.
    An hour later, Anna stood in front of an old, three-story building with grey stone walls that had observed centuries of comings and goings on the narrow street where it was situated. Falcone’s office was on the second floor, and she opened the heavy wooden doorway and entered a dim foyer. It smelled a bit musty but felt blessedly cool after the sticky morning heat. Straight ahead was a stone stairway, flanked by a wrought iron railing. The steps were worn down in the middle by countless trudging feet. At the top of the landing, double entry doors bearing the name of Falcone’s company faced her. She entered a classically-decorated reception room, and a well-dressed young woman who spoke in accented English greeted her and ushered her into Falcone’s office.
    “Anna. Have a seat.” Falcone motioned to one of the armchairs. “I trust you had a comfortable night.”
    “Yes,” she lied, as a vestige of the nightmare reared its ugly head again. “Very comfortable. The hotel is lovely. And I enjoyed the walk over this morning as well.”
    “Good. Well then, here is the package for your review. There’s an empty office in which you can look the material over. My assistant will accompany you there.” He used the telephone to summon the woman, who appeared at the door a moment later.
    “Thank you. Mr. Falcone—”
    “Please, call me Paolo.”
    “Paolo, then. I was hoping to have a look at the site later today. Would it be possible for me to do that after I’ve looked over the material?”
    “I can certainly try to arrange it for today,” he said. “There is a construction trailer set up on the island in anticipation of your arrival, although it may be difficult to arrange water transport on same-day notice.”
    “Oh, I’m more than willing to take public transport, no need to arrange a private boat.” She didn’t want him to think she expected special consideration.
    He skipped a beat before saying, “I’m afraid that’s not possible. There is no public transportation to Poveglia.”
    “Oh. I noticed the boats going to the Lido yesterday, so I thought—”
    “Unfortunately, no. Access to Poveglia entails certain...arrangements. The city must provide special dispensation to those requesting permission to visit the island, for the time being, at least. I will, however, do my best to make those arrangements and