ON HIS WAY HOME, Saul's phone rang. He activated the speaker without looking at the screen—it was Meggie, the young assistant who had been taking up more space in his thoughts than he considered reasonable to admit.
— Hello, Meggie, did you manage to write the article? —he asked in a practical tone, like someone requesting a report, not a favor.
"…I did, but I'm a bit unsure… I'd like you to read it…" — Her voice trembled slightly, a mix of shyness and determination.
— Will I have to do this every time? —he replied, the rudeness slipping out like an ill-controlled reflex.
"…No… it's just that…" —she stammered.
— Did you forget I'm not the editor-in-chief? —Saul cut in, sharp as glass.
"…Did something happen? You're being edgy with me… did I do something to you?" —she insisted, a thread of concern in her voice.
Of course you did… —Saul thought, merciless with himself: you remind me of the only girl I ever loved…
The memory struck like a blade: Justine's face, stolen moments at dusk, silent promises that were never fulfilled.
— I'll do it tomorrow morning, before passing it to Mick, okay? —he said, trying to sound firm and reasonable.
"…I wanted you to read it today…" —Meggie pleaded.
There was hope in her request, almost childish. Saul heard the air leave her chest in a sigh he imagined was nearly a cry for help. On the other end, Meggie heard him snort—a small sound, but heavy with impatience.
— Send it to my email. If I have time, I'll look at it today, alright? —Saul said impatiently, trying to impose professional distance.
"…Thank you…" —she replied softly, gratefully.
— But I don't promise anything. I'm quite busy. —he added, a warning.
"…I thought you were going to invite me for tea…" —she said, daring a risk that left him, for a second, embarrassed and curious.
— Maybe another day… —Saul replied, and for a moment the world shrank around that suggestion: a tea that could turn into dinner, a meeting that should not exist between a boss and his assistant.
"…Good night, Saul. See you tomorrow…" —Formality tried to mask the slight tremor in her farewell.
— Bye. —He hung up.
Meggie ended the call. Saul remained with the inert phone in his hand for a few seconds, as if it were the helm of a ship in open sea that he had not yet decided to steer.
— What an impertinent girl! —he muttered to himself. And immediately admitted, in the same breath, that if she were as attractive as she was bold, he wouldn't resist either.
SAUL FELT A SUDDEN, almost childish urge to call her back and invite her to dinner. It was the first time in many years that he wanted someone by his side for reasons that were not merely physical. Diana filled hotel rooms and commitment-free nights—the perfect woman for unattached sex, skilled in seduction when circumstances allowed. Meggie, however, stirred something different: a light tightening in his chest, a genuine curiosity about her mind, her hesitations, what lay behind her voice.
He thought of Justine. Her ghost was always ready to whisper comparisons and guilt. If Meggie weren't his subordinate, he might have invited her without hesitation; but Saul did not want to risk what remained of his reputation. Scandals stain résumés and ruin lives—and he had already had enough for ten lifetimes.
He parked in the garage of his mansion on Hampstead Street. The street slept in silence, as if the city held its breath so as not to interrupt his thoughts. The house, purchased with part of the advance from his inheritance, seemed torn from a painting: imposing façade, wide symmetrical windows, two chimneys that gave it an air of affectionate ancestry. He recalled, with a faint smile, that the neighborhood was no ordinary one—nearby, John Keats had written verses about nightingales. Ironies of fate.
He entered, removed his overcoat, and walked into the living room. He picked up a glass, poured cognac halfway, and turned on the sound system. He prepared his pipe with a mixture he knew would relax him and loosen the knots of his reasoning: a breath of marijuana with tobacco. He sat in the armchair by the fireplace, which was as cold as a forgotten promise. The crackling was only an absent echo; all that remained was silence and the amber liquid at the bottom of the glass.
He needed to think.
The priest is hiding something… —the feeling grew like a toothache that refused relief. The story that had reached him seemed like a perfect chest: mutilation, murder, enigmas that smelled of perverted liturgy, dark prophecies—perfect ingredients for a major report. And when the source was a Vatican envoy, both tension and credibility doubled: powerful allies, doors opening, secrets that could bring down reputations.
Perhaps… —Saul thought, letting the pipe smoke dissolve into the air— perhaps this was his chance to clear his name. If he proved he had been the victim of a satanic conspiracy, if he demonstrated he had always been right about the criminals' identity, he could reclaim the helm of his career.
The memory of Raphaniè reconciling with his father echoed and brought another memory—older, deeper. He recalled a distant summer, when he was six years old and walked hand in hand with his father through the woods of the mansion at The Holme. The scene returned in vivid colors: green sprouts, the smell of turned earth, the weight of his father's hand—and then the dog.
A black, muscular dog emerged from behind a bush with the ferocity of something born to rule. It leapt, stopping inches from Saul. Its bristling fur gleamed, its paws resembled the claws of the chimeras carved on the gate, and its grotesque snout seemed to expel steam like a kettle. It growled. Fangs—teeth dripping with something that looked like dried blood. Its eyes, ember-red, cast a glow that both warmed and terrified.
Saul, small in body but immense in fear, clutched his father's legs and buried his face. He heard the sound of impact; a strange, muffled grunt—and when he lifted his face, the dog had a sword driven into its neck. It was his father's cane—the secret hidden in its handle: a concealed blade, like something from chivalric tales. His hero had saved the boy. The scene returned with the clinical clarity of an X-ray.
If my father admitted I was right, we could see each other again… —he consoled himself, with the naïveté of someone who still believes in new beginnings.
Saul clenched his fists until his joints cracked. The old fury resurfaced—not the fury of a man who strikes for sport, but that of a journalist who checks facts until all alternatives are exhausted. Something had been hidden, manipulated. There were voices trying to silence the truth.
— This time, you won't escape me. —he murmured, the sentence as dry as the smoke dissolving into the ceiling. The cognac burned his throat, and for a moment, he smiled with predictable cruelty: the game had begun again.