She spent all day in bed, even after the doctor had left. And before he had, he'd pulled Stefano aside with an air of urgency. "I'm very sorry for your loss—truly, I am," the doctor told him. "I cannot begin to imagine what you are feeling. Please understand that I do not wish to undermine your own grief, but I need to warn you that your wife feels this loss enormously. She was nearly two and a half months along now—that's two and a half months she had to bond with it even as an unborn child. Does she have any friends or family close by?"

"No," Stefano replied quickly. "Just me."

"I see," the doctor said. "Take care of her. Take care of yourself."

"Doctor," Stefano suddenly spoke up as the man was pulling the front door open. "How long will it take for things to…?" He hesitated, picking his words carefully. "To go back to normal?"

"That depends," the doctor replied. "However long the both of you need."

This time it was Stefano's turn to softly say, "I see."

"I left a card on the nightstand for counseling, should either of you need it. That resource is always available."

"We'll consider it. Thank you." Stefano shut the door behind the doctor. He turned and walked back to the bed where a still, silent figure lay on her side. Both her hands were tucked underneath the pillow, and she stared vacantly with unseeing eyes.

The mattress creaked lightly as Stefano took a seat at the edge of the bed. Seconds ticked by. The silence was stifling, and yet Stefano could find no way to break it. And then he heard it—the first thing Celestina had said in days.

"I wanted a little girl."

Her words were followed by the soft gasps and hiccups of gentle sobbing. Through the mattress, he felt her shake. Stefano usually enjoyed the sight of suffering—the rawness of despair would thrill him. The breaking of something sacred would amaze him.

But here the thing that had been broken was that—the connection between a woman and her child. This, Stefano couldn't stomach. It brought about a pain that reached him, refusing to let him just be a spectator. Once, the breaking of this connection had come a little too close, and from then on it wouldn't leave him alone. Though desperate to escape the sight, Stefano knew that turning this way or that wouldn't prevent him from seeing it.

He stood right outside the apartment. The sound of sobbing from within had him hesitating at the door. A lump was rising in his throat. In a bid to stave away the tears before they would come, Stefano quickly lifted his hand and knocked. In his other, a small album was gripped tightly.

The few seconds that followed his knocks were unbearable. Then, the door opened and a woman that Stefano recognized as the caretaker stood in the doorway.

"I want to see her," he told the caretaker. The woman hesitated, but then brought him in. When Stefano saw her, he stopped.

Her face was all too familiar—like the sight of an old home. Comfortable. Safe. But now there was nothing but heartbreak and tears. Suffering brought out the lines of age forth into the light, and her bloodshot eyes were cloudy. She looked old.

She looked alone.

Stefano swallowed, and it was painful. He saw her stand up when she heard him enter, and it was painful. He felt her come up and hug him as she always did, and it hurt him. At that moment, he realized he didn't want to love anymore, because love hurt.

But here, he had no choice. It was already injected into his bloodstream. There was no way to claw it back out.

"I brought this for you," he said. He offered the album to her, but suddenly it dawned on him that she wouldn't be able to see how each page held a photograph of her son—every picture Stefano had taken that held his image. It was all that was left of him, and she wouldn't be able to see it.

But she took it. She felt the cover, opened it, and felt the plastic sleeves inside. She pressed her fingers down and felt the edges of the photographs through the thin plastic. "Oh, caro, thank you. It's absolutely… Stefano?"

He was crying. He'd told himself he wouldn't but—dammit! "I'm sorry," he whimpered through his tears.

"Oh, caro, no. Why are you apologizing?"

"Because," he said, "it's the only thing I can do."

Stefano blinked. The bed underneath him quivered. He felt sick from the uninvited pain, wishing there was some way to reach inside and tear it out. Hold it out in front of him and cut deep enough to bleed it out.

If it had been a boy, Stefano thought, I would have named him after you.

He unclasped the button that secured the glove to his wrist and pulled it from his hand. Reaching over, Stefano rested the hand on Celestina's calf and left it there while she cried. It was the only thing he could do.

For the next few days, Stefano found himself unable to look at her. Every time he did, he saw the image of an old woman with cataracts superimposed over that of his wife. And then there it would be—that pain.

Celestina stayed mostly bedridden. She had no appetite and only sipped enough water to keep herself alive. Once, Stefano found her sitting up with the porcelain ballerina cradled in her hands. She was humming the melody of that lullaby. Her voice was out of tune.

Stefano was a firm believer that genuine, brilliant madness could not first be born without a powerful catalyst. For him, it had been the death of the one truly good thing in his life. For Celestina, it began with the phone call.

When Stefano picked up, he heard a man's voice ask for Celestina. Upon asking for a name, Stefano was told he was speaking to a Clyde. Who—oh, yes. That portly stump of a man who did all of Celestina's grunt work for her. Stefano told him that his wife was currently unavailable and Clyde, having heard a vague summary of what happened, asked how she was doing.

Synthetic empathy. Disgusting, Stefano thought disdainfully. Though in a pleasant voice, he thanked Clyde for his concern and said that Celestina was fairing well.

"That's good," Clyde said. "And you?"

"I'm fine." By accident, Stefano let a piece of his impatience breach through his tone. In his defense, he was fully aware that Clyde's concern was only a formality—there was a reason for this phone call and he could feel it coming.

"Right, Stefano, I… I have some news I'd like you to deliver to Celestina. You'd really be doing me a favor."

Typical. Trying to make me feel like I'm the gracious one—give me a false sense of power so I'll agree. "What do you need?"

"The thing is… my contractual term with Celestina is up by the end of the month, and I think it'd be best—given her current condition…"

Don't use that as your excuse. You're doing this for yourself.

"… If I didn't renew it." Quickly, Clyde added, "Give her a break, you know? Some proper time to recover."

A muscle in Stefano's jaw twitched. What a misfortune it was that he couldn't reach through the phone and strangle this idiot for trying to pull wool over his eyes. "This isn't a break," he said pointedly. "You're dropping her."

"Well—!" Clyde retorted quickly, sounding flustered. "Stefano, I think we'd both agree this is what's best for her, isn't it? This thing—it's going to take some time to move on, right?"

"You've already signed on with someone else, haven't you?" Stefano didn't hear any more useless, boilerplate statements sputter out from Clyde's end. "Let me guess—someone at least a decade younger than Celestina, am I right?" He let his disgusted chuckle sound out over the line. "My friend, you're quite a piece of work. Now let me tell you—if there's anything I hate more than a philistine, it's a coward. I'm not going to let you turn me into the bearer of your bad news. If you want to drop my Celestina, you tell her yourself."

"N-no, see here—." The fool's bumbling was cut off as Stefano took the phone away from his ear and walked towards the bed. He found Celestina curled there, her neglected curls slowly dissolving into limp locks. Her ringed eyes flickered over to Stefano as he approached. Wordlessly, he held the phone out to her. "Clyde," he said, "has something to tell you."

He almost saw the traces of fear as Celestina sat up and reached for the phone. As soon as it was in her hand, Stefano turned away and walked back towards the studio space. He had almost reached it when he heard Celestina scream out, "WHAT? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?"

Stefano tried imagining the pitiful burbling that would be coming from the other end, but his mind couldn't quite dip to that low a level.

"Stronzo!" he heard Celestina shriek into the phone. "Cornuto! Vaffanculo, you piece of shit!"

Oh dear, Stefano mused, best not to let Emilia know what filthy words came forth from her daughter's mouth.

"No wonder Macy kicked you aside, you worthless fuck!" Celestina hung up, and a loud crash told Stefano that the phone had likely met its end against a wall.

Take care of her, the doctor had told him. Stefano intended to do just that—after all, she was his darling muse. A complement to the artist. An admirer. Everything he needed bundled into one beautiful being.

But his eye was a trained one, and he could tell when the most beautiful pieces had yet to reach their fullest potential. An opportunity had suddenly presented itself to Stefano, blooming like a rare flower with colors unfathomable to the lacking mind. He saw a chance hidden within those hues, and like an eager gambler he took it.

After the call from Clyde had come, Celestina began to include wine into her sparse diet. Stefano would see her with yet another bottle in her hands. Her gaze was fierce and fiery as she silently dared him to stop her. Stefano remain silent and let her pass.

One evening, Stefano was nonchalantly flipping through the pages of the Corriere Della Serra when he heard the heavy clicking of heels storming towards him. He let his gaze flicker up for the briefest of moments just to catch the sight of a form marching up to him out of the corner of his eye before focusing back on the printed text.

"Do you even care?" Celestina demanded. Stefano could tell just from her voice that she had consulted with quite a few glasses tonight. "About me? At all?"

"Of course I do, amore." He flipped another page.

"Then prove it! Show me!"

Finally, Stefano closed the two halves of the newspaper and looked up. Mercy, she looked a mess. But he reminded himself that he was simply looking at a cocoon—unpleasant, yes, but soon to reveal something breathtaking. All he needed to do was be patient. "When was the last time you ate? Was it just wine tonight?"

"I said show me!" Celestina demanded, her voice shrilly. "Take me to bed! Kiss me!"

Stefano chuckled as a stray memory surfaced at those two words. "Let's not tread on thin ice, amore." He was just starting to open his newspaper back up when Celestina spoke in a broken voice.

"Do you even still love me anymore?"

"There is nothing I love more than my dearest muse," Stefano replied, skimming over an article to find where he had stopped.

"Stop it!" Her scream ripped through Stefano's concentration. Furrowing his brow, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Stop calling me that! I'm not your muse! I'm your wife!"

Stefano closed the newspaper back up. He let it drape over is lap as he looked up at Celestina, holding her gaze in its entirety. "If you are not my muse," he told her slowly, letting each word puncture her, "you are nothing."

What he saw in Celestina's eyes was utterly fractured, and he almost felt disappointed when she turned away and took it out of his sight. He took a moment to watch her slowly walk away. The mattress creaked as she climbed back into bed. Lifting the newspaper, Stefano opened it back to the article he was reading. It bore the headline: FORMER PRESIDENT OF TALCUM PETROLEUM NICHOLAS AMONTE DEAD AT AGE 70.

The following night, Stefano found himself once again reclined in his armchair with the latest edition of the Corriere. Tonight had been quiet. Stefano had not heard a peep from Celestina, though he was sure she must have drank twice as much as last night. It would be, Stefano figured with a quiet sigh to himself, yet another night of waiting.

Or so he thought.

He heard the heavy, uneven steps and kept his eyes on the pages in front of him as he listened closely. But even when they neared him, they didn't slow. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Celestina pass him and finally looked up. She didn't even look at him as she stormed past him—towards the studio, he realized. He watched her for a moment until she disappeared. He heard the door to the darkroom open, and the sound of her steps receded. After a few moments of deliberation, he closed the newspaper and stood. With slow steps, Stefano trailed after Celestina. The door to the darkroom had been left open. As was the door that led below.

Stefano was halfway down the stairs when he heard her. "Shut up!" she snapped. "Shut up, all of you! What do you know? What do ANY of you know?"

The sounds of his steps were masked underneath her frenzied shouts. At the other end of the chamber, Stefano saw her standing before the glass displays. She had gone quiet. He noticed how her head whipped from one dismembered head to the other.

"She deserved it!" Celestina said, her wild voice taking on a guttural growl. She jerked her head, staring at a different display now. "She took everything from me!"

"Amore." His voice cut through the air and whatever delirium had taken over Celestina. He saw her turn to look at him. "What are you doing?"

She squinted with cruel, hateful eyes down at the dark, swirling liquid in the glass. She had been dropped, abandoned, by that swine of all people. Fine! He was nothing without her! It would be a lesson he would be dragged against, and she hoped it grated his piggish hide off!

It was as if she was losing everything, everyone. Well, no, there was still him, wasn't there?

No. There wasn't even him. Since that day… when she had returned home without the box, and he held her while her world burned, he had done… absolutely nothing. True, he was the only reason she had eaten at all. Whenever she refused, he would grow stern with her. But on the nights she cried herself to sleep, he would just lay there, miles and miles away on the other side of the bed. He wouldn't hold her, stroke her hair. Christ, he wouldn't even look at her.

Wine gave her the courage to confront him about it one night. She was sick, absolutely sick, of the isolation. She wanted him to finally cross that damned barrier and come back to her. Touch the pain away. Make love as if it was the last thing they'd ever do.

Was this his way of punishing her for losing the baby? If he wanted a child, she wished he would just put another one in her so he would care about her again.

When she had drunken enough courage, she had marched right up to him in the hopes of finally getting him to realize what he was doing to her. And then, in that very confrontation, she heard him utter those words.

"If you are not my muse, you are nothing."

They stabbed deep into her gut. And when she looked into his eye, she saw that he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to her.

She had given into defeat, resolved to stew in her misery while he—what did he even want? To gloat? To silently torment her? Of course. It was that artist in him—the one that loved all things ugly and called them beautiful.

Well he had won. He'd won because he was a demon with no heart, no grasp of emotion, and thus no grasp of suffering.

The next night, she downed glass after glass but avoided Stefano in pitiful compliance. Maybe, she figured as she stared down into the deep, bloody well of her wine glass, one of these days this accursed liquid would finally drown her.

It was supposed to be a quiet night. When it got dark, she wanted to sleep so she could return to worlds that didn't matter. But, as she lay down, she found herself unable to sink down despite the heavy anchor of alcohol. Something was keeping her tethered here. It was that demon—this was just another way he tormented her.

She lay still as a corpse and waited. Just waited. And then she heard it.

A voice called out to her—called her by her name. A woman's voice. Unsure, she lifted her head from the pillow. There it was again, that voice. And another one. There were two of them—no, three. They called her name.

She ground her teeth. How did they know? Rising, she felt herself drawn to their voices. She rushed towards them as if pulled, her gait unsteadied and frenzied. She entered the studio without realizing where she was and pushed the button behind the bust's ear as she passed it. Down the stairs she descended, still listening to the voices calling her name. They were getting louder.

The lights triggered as she drew near, and finally she saw them. With wide, stunned eyes, she saw that their dead faces now held engorged smiles that nearly tore their waxen skin.

"Here she comes," the head at the very left said. "Lady of the hour." Cackles arose from behind the other glass boxes.

"Poor, poor girl," another cooed in a tone that did nothing but mock.

"Shut up!" she hissed, her eyes wide with madness and terror. "I don't need your sympathy!"

"Poor, poor girl," the head directly to her right repeated. "Not even a woman. Can't be called a woman if she can't even keep a baby in that womb." More cackling. Louder.

Her hands balled into fists, her nails cutting into her skin. The pain was invisible to her. All she could see were the heads in front of her, their mouths open wide and their faces warped into grotesque visages of mockery. "Shut up! Shut up, all of you! What do you know? What do ANY of you know?"

"What do we know?" the decorated head in front of her said. "We know everything. We know what you did that night. We know who really dropped from that bridge."

"So cruel! So evil!" another piped up.

"She deserved it! She took everything from me!"

"Amore, what are you doing?"

That one voice cut through above all others. Celestina felt herself tense, and then relax as though broken free from a spell. She turned and saw him standing there. The light behind her illuminated his entire front, his face. She saw him watching her with that eye. Her breaths escaped her mouth in haggard breaths.

She took a step towards him and threw her finger back, shakily pointing at the glass displays. "Get rid of them," she growled in a low voice. "I don't want them near me."

That one eye, that deep, piercing blue, regarded her.

"No."

He had turned and was walking away before he could even see the tears. Funny, she figured he would've enjoyed the sight of them. His shoes tapped coldly against the ground—tap, tap, tap—as he left her there.

This was different. This time, her rage was fueled by desperation. If he wouldn't silence them, she'd have to take it upon her own hands to make sure that they never spoke a word again. Storming back upstairs, she made straight for the garage where she knew it would be waiting for her. It was in the toolbox with the heavy lid. She felt the weight of it tug on her arm as she carried it back in.

She saw him immediately sit up at the sight of her. He thought, at first, that he was in some sort of danger. Maybe she would've liked to bash his demon head in, but at that moment only one burning desire controlled her. She flew past him and headed for the stairs. There they were at the end of the room, waiting for her under those lights. Under all that glass. They were silent this time, but that wasn't going to save them.

As she drew near, the hammer in her hand rose. She lifted it above her head as she stopped in front of the nearest display.

Finally, finally, she would know peace. Finally, they would stop—.

The hammer wouldn't come down. Something had caught it. Wildly, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him—that demon. With one arm raised, he was holding the hammer back to keep her from bringing it down. He leaned just an inch closer and whispered in a daunting voice, each word dripping with agitation.

"Don't touch the works."

Suddenly, with a forceful wrench, he yanked the hammer from her grip. She watched him and waited. But what she expected him to do wouldn't happen, and it broke her heart.

He turned his back on her once again and walked towards the stairs, holding the hammer and her last trace of hope. No—no! This couldn't be it! Desperately, she stumbled after him.

"Just kill me then!" At her cry, he stopped. She saw him turn his head, but his back remained turned. "Cut off my head and put it in one of those boxes if it's the only way you'll care about me!"

He turned, hammer in hand. Each slow step brought him closer. As she watched him, her strength left her and her legs buckled. She collapsed on the ground. She dipped her head down and saw his shoes stop in front of her. There was a brief lull. Suddenly, the head of the hammer hit the ground between her hands. She heard the rustle of his clothes as he crouched down. One of his hands rested on the tip of the handle. The other came to her face. She felt the told touch of leather just below her chin. Her face was pulled up.

He examined her. There was something appraising about his gaze. He brought his thumb up and traced her lower lip with it. She felt nothing but the coldness.

Finally, he said, "You're tired. Go lie down." He took his hand from her face. He stood, and she couldn't bear the thought that he was about to walk away. That was all anyone ever did to her. Because she had always been the entirely different animal.

She had been afraid to tell him this truth, because she knew it would make him walk away too. But it was already too late. Her weight had already tipped her over the edge and there was nothing left to do but make peace while she fell.

"No one has ever loved me!" she cried. She wrapped her arms around herself. "Everyone has only ever loved Celestina through me!"

He knelt down again. She felt his hand come up underneath her face. This time, he gripped her jaw as he brought her face to look up at his. She saw his eye, but this time there wasn't a demon in it. There was… him.

"There it is," he said. "Off comes the mask." He left the hammer on the ground as he brought his other hand up to run his fingertips across her cheek. "Cracked. Shattered. I'll confess something to you—I love broken things. It lets me see the insides." His grip on her jaw suddenly tightened. He did something she didn't expect.

He kissed her—deeply and passionately, like a starved lover. When he finally broke away, she gasped for air. He still hadn't let go of her jaw. She felt his cheek slide against hers as he brought his lips to her ear.

"So good to finally be able to put face to name," he whispered, "Alessandra."

It reemerged like an old friend, a dusty memory. At the sight of it, Ledford wanted to slap his forehead in exasperation. He had been rifling through his desk when he found it—that old article in its plastic sleeve. Technically, he could have gotten into serious trouble for holding official case evidence among his personal possessions, but well… to be fair, he had been meaning to return it to the evidence storage facility.

But… right, this was the bloody Milanese newspaper article he had taken when looking back into the Curtis case. Come to think of it, hadn't there been something odd about it?

The back. That handwritten message. It hadn't made sense at all when Ledford first read it. He wasn't sure how this time would be any different, but he flipped the page over anyway. There it was—penned words written by a man before he was murdered. It was almost as though the message was meant to be directed to someone—not the detective who read it now. Someone else.

There, on the back of the article. Just on the outskirts of the blood.

Chapters. First Letters.