Page 97 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“A cat who can open doors without the need for thumbs,” Bastian murmured. “The end is nigh.”

He gave himself ayou-can-do-thisthump on the hip and followed.

The living room was large, dark, and overflowing with furniture, but it was far cleaner than Bastian had expected. His night sight picked out plants that ambled up and over bookcases, their tendrils creeping through shelves cluttered with crystals, animal skulls, old jewelry, and a framed picture of Sofia di Vernazza. Trinkets and keepsakes filled every surface. Little bowls of shells. Pebbles in glass jars. A spice rack stocked with dried herbs.

“Where are you?” Bastian asked before spotting Whitby chasing a spider into the corner. She almost knocked over a stack of books in the process.

“There are so many books…” Bastian saw piles everywhere. Some spines gleamed with silver lettering, while others were bound in soft leather.

The air smelled damp but that was just one of a thousand scents tickling his nostrils. Among them was something musky, an herb perhaps, so close to the aftershave De Luca wore that Bastian’s heart became rocklike.

“What do you think the inspector is doing right now?” he asked, taking a bottle from a well-stocked drinks trolley and sniffing.Whiskey.

“Sleeping, if he has any sense,” Whitby said.

“The council will have arrived to inspect Salvador’s body by now.”

“Bastian—”

He cut her off. “I know, I know. Less lovesick contemplation, more hard-nosed investigation.”

“Lovesick. You’ve barely known him five minutes.”

Bastian shook his head. “Feelings shouldn’t be measured by time but by intensity. Not that I’m saying I’m in love with the inspector. His ears, maybe. I never realized I had a thing for ears until—oh look, tarot.”

Salvador had completed a reading recently. Four cards formed a cross on the circular table.

“What does it mean?” Bastian asked.

Whitby hopped up to cast her eye over the cards. “You’d have to ask Salvador. A reading is completely personal and open to interpretation.”

Bastian rested a finger on a card depicting an angel. “This one looks promising.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“Yes.” Bastian looked around the apartment. “I fear we may have misjudged il signor Silvestri.”

“Speak for yourself.” Whitby was on the windowsill now inspecting a row of jars. It took Bastian a moment to realize they contained pickled creatures. A rat. A hedgehog. A snake.

“The collection is unique, I’ll give you that,” he said. “But none of this saysmurder me. I should have listened to him when he—”

No. Bastian brought himself up.No point in regret.

“I need my bag of ointments and charms,” Whitby said. “I could cast a spell to help us trace the killer’s footsteps.”

“Returning to our apartment is too risky.”

Bastian went to an archway, through which he found an ordered bedroom. Small. A bed against the wall, black curtains drawn, an assortment of dark and disturbing pictures on the wall.

The nightstand held a black-and-white photograph of two men embracing. The gaunt, black-haired youngster had to be Salvador in his twenties. His arms looped around a strikingly handsome Black man, and the way their heads rested together told Bastianeverything he needed to know about their relationship. They were lovers.

Salvador had a partner? The apartment felt like the home of a lonely scholar, and Bastian got the feeling the other man had never been there. The fact that Salvador kept the picture by his bed seemed to confirm that, wherever the other man was, Salvador hadn’t forgotten him. Hadn’t wanted to.

“Salvador was in love,” Bastian murmured. He resumed searching. He looked under the bed, then slipped his hand under the pillow, his fingers meeting something solid.

“Ah,” he said, tugging free a notebook. It was pocket-sized and battered from use. Inside, he found pages filled with scratchy black ink.

“Salvador kept a journal,” Bastian said, returning to the living room. Whitby sat on a piano, her head adorned with a crown of cobwebs. Bastian tutted and plucked them free.