“Oh yeah, that I do remember.”
“And Arthur thought it was jealousy on Ryan’s part. You know, Penny took a lot of the attention away from him.”
“I remember that, too.”
“Then one day, after a fight about some nonsense, Penny threw a rock that hit Ryan in the head. She was … what, twelve? Thirteen? Way too old for that behavior, but she said she was just messing around and didn’t mean to hit him. Next morning, Penny found her confiscated phone and was using it like nothing had happened.
“I reminded her about her punishment, but instead of defending herself, she was utterly horrified. She had no memory of throwing that rock and burst into tears, poor thing, saying how she’d never hurt Ryan. Memory loss is a sign of trouble, plain and simple. It was one of her alters who threw that rock, and I bet you anything it was Eve. I should have known, should have done something sooner, and that’s all there is to it.”
Grace noticed Ryan hovering nearby. He was carrying a box of potatoes retrieved from the back storeroom, and sported a brand-new, plum-colored Big Frank’s polo shirt, which he had custom made for the staff to wear.
Grace liked the shirts well enough, thought they looked sharp. She was especially fond of the embroidered depiction of Ryan’s grandfather, the restaurant’s namesake, spinning a pizza on his outstretched （and stitched） finger. It was the spitting image of Francesco, aka Frank, right down to the same bald spot that Arthur had inherited. Ryan hoped that a new look would attract new customers, but the dwindling receipts couldn’t be the only explanation for the brooding look haunting his face. It all fell apart soon after Penny’s arrest. What had happened between then and now? The question continued to bedevil her.
“Talking about my darling sister?” Ryan asked as he set the box down atop a stainless steel prep table. Standing upright, he wrapped his arms across his broad chest in a way that made his biceps pop in the sleeves of the polo.
“I had a meeting with her lawyer and new doctor today,” Grace explained. “Dr. McHugh is going to try to reach Penny’s alters. He believes if he connects with them, he might be able to demonstrate she wasn’t in control that night … that she suffered some kind of psychotic break when she met Rachel for the first time in person.”
“I thought Eve was all dug in. So he’s going to free the hostages, is that it?” Ryan said incredulously.
“It’s possible,” Grace said. “If not, he doesn’t think the jury will buy the insanity defense.”
“That’s fair. I don’t buy any of this nonsense about alternate personalities.” Ryan’s eyelids lowered, and Grace saw something in him that reminded her of Eve. “It’s so absurd,” he went on. “She’s crazy as a loon. Always has been. That Palumbo guy was spot on when he called her a psychopath. Psychotic break? Give me a break. She wanted to kill, wrote about killing, even wrote that she was going to kill Rachel Boyd, and then she went and did it. What more do you need to know?”
“Ryan, please,” Grace said, invoking the mother tone that had worked well only when her children were young.
He was heading back to the cash register when Grace heard the tinkling sound of the little brass bell above the front door. From the kitchen, she peered around Ryan to observe three men entering the restaurant. They were definitely not regulars.
Two of the men Grace did not know at all: dark-haired, dark-eyed, greasy-looking fellows, both in grease-stained work clothes. They moved from the front door to the counter with a cocky indifference that would have sent her across the street had she encountered them on a sidewalk.
The man in the middle, however, Grace recognized without a second glance because his picture had been all over the scandal-loving news around the time of the murder—Vincent Rapino, Rachel Boyd’s paramour, who had never before found cause to set foot inside Big Frank’s. Rapino was tall and thin, standing a head above his two companions. He came forward in something of a prowl, catlike on his feet, head darting around, surveying the restaurant with probing eyes.
Ryan, who was manning the cash register, politely waited to take food orders from these men, not realizing who it was approaching him. Or if he did, he played it extremely cool. Grace undid her apron as she came out from the kitchen to join Ryan at the front counter.
“I’ve got this, Mom,” Ryan said.
“No,” Grace muttered to him, talking in a low voice. “I don’t think you do.”
“Well, well, well,” said Rapino, locking eyes on Grace as he smacked a calloused hand against the red laminate countertop. “Gracie Francone. What are the chances?”