Chapter 29 · Two Prints

"There's two sets on this, Luca." I slap the lab report on his desk so hard the crystal tumbler jumps. "Two. Not one. Read it yourself, or should I read it to you slow?"

He doesn't even look down. He looks at me, which is worse. "I read it an hour ago."

"An hour ago." My voice cracks up a register. "And you didn't call me?"

"I was deciding how to say it."

"Say it fast. That's how you always say the bad stuff."

He comes around the desk instead of answering, and I hate that my whole body clocks the distance closing — six feet, four, two. He smells like gun oil and the cedar soap he uses, and I hate that I know that smell now, that my body picked it out of a room before my brain caught up.

"The knife that went in Marco's ribs," he says, "has your prints on the handle."

The floor tilts. "That's impossible. I've never touched that knife in my life."

"I know."

"Then why does the report say —"

"Because there's a second print under yours. Lifted after. Somebody pressed your hand onto that handle after the fact.