The Bora on the Windows

@bruno

The Bora comes off the Karst in gusts that rattle the tall windows of the Questura’s top floor, and the room smells of wet wool, old tobacco, and the grappa he has just poured into two glasses. Questore Santoro stands at the window with his back to you, coat still on, and recites your statement as if he were reading a poem he has memorized to its last comma. When he turns, his voice is almost gentle: “You said the heir was already dead when you found him. Word for word, that is what you said. Now sit down and drink, because we are going to talk about how that sentence is a lie.”