Chapter 1 - THE SOUND BENEATH THE LACE
The first thing Bruno did was shove his enormous head between Tomas Vasquez and the little girl on the funeral bier.
Tomas recoiled, furious, and Carmine DeLuca caught the black-and-tan dog's collar before a single claw touched Elena's white dress.
Around them, the San Mateo Funeral Home fell silent. White roses crowded the cream-colored couch on which Elena appeared to sleep.
A chandelier made the room look fit for a wedding, an obscene choice for a seven-year-old's farewell.
Outside the tall windows, mourners sheltered beneath black umbrellas.
Elena had once offered half the neighborhood drawings of horses, and many came because they could not bear the thought of her parents standing alone.
Tomas knelt in his gray suit, one hand covering his mouth.
Rosa stood just behind him, holding the yellow denim jacket Elena had worn to school on Tuesday. She had refused to surrender it, even to the funeral director.
Three days earlier, a dark pickup had climbed the sidewalk outside La Estrella bakery. Witnesses remembered brakes that never sounded.
The police told Tomas the vehicle disappeared toward the expressway; the clinic told Rosa her daughter died before midnight.
Now Bruno pressed his nose against the lace at Elena's wrist and made a sound Carmine had never heard from him.
It was a thin, frightened whine, followed by a low growl aimed across the room.
Marco Ricci stood beneath the chandelier in a black suit, one hand on the shoulder of a younger man.
Carmine's underboss wore the gold village ring Carmine had given him twelve years ago. His smile died when Bruno stared at him.
“Take the dog outside,” Marco said. “Tomas has suffered enough.” Carmine kept his hand on Bruno's collar.
The Rottweiler had remained calm through sirens, gunfire, and Carmine's worst nights. Fear from Bruno deserved an explanation.
The funeral director hurried forward. “The viewing must end soon. The transfer is scheduled for six.” She would not meet Rosa's eyes.
When Carmine asked where the body was being transferred, she glanced at Marco before answering.
“The county facility,” she said. “The papers are already signed.” Rosa turned sharply.
She had signed a receipt for Elena's clothing at the clinic, but nobody had shown her a transfer authorization for her daughter's remains.
Bruno jerked free. He placed his front paws beside Elena's pillow and nosed the faded rabbit tucked under her arm.
A faint vibration traveled through the toy. Tomas heard it too and reached out, his fingers shaking.
Marco crossed the room fast. “Don't touch that.” His hand closed around Tomas's wrist with enough force to make the father cry out.
Bruno dropped from the couch and planted himself between them, teeth bared.
Carmine seized Marco's forearm and pulled him away. A vase toppled onto the marble floor.
White petals slid through spilled water while the mourners backed toward the doors, uncertain whether to call for help or run.
“You know what's inside the rabbit,” Carmine said. Marco stared past him at the bier.
For the first time since they had met, the man who handled every crisis in Queens looked as though he had run out of lies.
Tony Moretti removed the rabbit from beneath Elena's arm. Its back had been stitched with dark thread that did not match the old fabric.
Inside the stuffing, a cheap phone pulsed on silent, lighting the thin cloth from within.
There was one new recording. It had arrived forty minutes earlier.
Rosa snatched the phone before anyone could stop her, pressed play, and heard three soft knocks: two close together, a pause, then one more.
“That's her,” Rosa whispered. “She does that on the kitchen wall when she wants me to find her.” The recording crackled.
A child's breath caught against the microphone, followed by a voice so faint Tomas nearly missed it.
“Mama, the blue star is on the door.” A man's voice barked for silence.
The clip ended beneath the hollow slam of metal. Rosa held the phone against her chest as though it were a living thing.
Marco lunged for it. Tony caught him before he reached Rosa, and the two men slammed against a row of chairs.
Carmine did not look at them. He was watching Bruno, who had returned to the couch and begun pushing at Elena's hairline.
A fine seam lifted beneath the dog's nose. Carmine drew back the lace with shaking hands.
Under the borrowed brown hair lay molded silicone, beautiful and terrible in its precision. Rosa screamed Elena's name and tore the false face away.
The chapel doors burst open as mourners rushed toward the street. Tomas stayed beside the empty likeness, unable to make his legs work.
Rosa touched the cold molded hand once, then pulled back.
The likeness copied Elena's face but knew nothing of her warmth, her impatient chatter, or the way she tucked her fingers into Rosa's palm.
Carmine faced Marco through the wreckage of flowers and chairs. “Where is she?”
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Marco's gaze went to the phone. “If Harlan knows she sent that message,” he said, “the little girl won't survive the drive.” Outside, rain struck the windows.
The transfer van had just pulled into the parking lot.
