The morning sun came in through the large dining room windows, casting a warm glow over the elegantly set table.
Under any other circumstances, this would have felt like a beautiful morning. But as I took my seat at the table, every detail felt off, weird even, in contrast to the horror that had taken place here last night.
I hadn't slept. My mind was a whirlwind of images and questions, none of which I could piece together.
The dead man lying in the sitting room, Sofia standing over him, gun in hand. And Bruno.
I still couldn't shake the memory of how calmly he'd ordered the cleanup, as if he'd done it a hundred times before.
They all sat around me, chatting lightly as if nothing had happened.
Mrs. Alfonzo was at the head of the table, pouring tea into a cup, her pinky finger lifted with exaggerated elegance.
Mr. Alfonzo sat to her left, engrossed in the morning paper, his fingers turning each page.
