Luca Fillipo had been murdered.
His death had occurred nearly forty years ago, and he hadn’t died gently. No.
A ragged slip of fragile paper was all Marcella had found of how Luca had died, but not where exactly, or by whose hand. So she’d begun the search for answers at the place where he’d started his new life in this unforgiving colony.
Marcella shifted her gaze. The headstones leaned back, forward or had fallen over as if beaten by the elements and were too tired to stand straight any longer. Beyond, a few straggly gums and forlorn scrub dotted the parched area, the dappled shade scarce. Dawn had hovered, then finally given way, and the air was warm, dry and ready to bake the landscape once more. Flies swooped and fluttered; only her kerchief saved her mouth and nose from their inevitable, incessant invasion.
Her great-uncle had come from a lush and fertile country far away, long ago, to this place of sparse vegetation and dense heat. He’d worked on these quiet arid lands—a young man then, had lived here, toiled here with the cattle. Perhaps he’d even droved over the dusty, ancient soil under her feet.
Did you lose your life here at Kanyaka, Uncle Luca?
He might have, but she couldn’t see he’d been buried here. There was no evidence of his final resting place among the haphazard headstones; she’d carefully peered at every one of them earlier. Maybe his plot was unmarked. A rush of emotion filled her and her heart lurched. Was she the only one who cared now?
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