{"product_id":"these-dark-things-isbn-9781616950767","title":"These Dark Things","description":"When a beautiful college student is found murdered in the catacombs beneath a monastery, Captain Natalia Monte of the Carabinieri is assigned to investigate. Could the killer be a professor the student had been sleeping with? A blind monk who loved her? Or perhaps a member of the brutal Napali criminal organization, the Camorra? As Natalia pursues her investigation, the crime families of Naples go to war over garbage-hauling contracts; and all across the city heaps of trash pile up, uncollected. When one of Natalia's childhood friends is caught up in the violence, her loyalties are tested, and each move she makes threatens her own life and the lives of those she loves.\u003cp\u003e“Where better to set a noir police procedural than in streets awash in  uncollected trash, against a backdrop of smoke rising from Vesuvius? . . .  Donna Leon owns Venice, and David Hewson rules Rome. With this  formidable debut novel, Weiss lays claim to Naples.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The most appealing element in this distinctive first is the fascinating contradictions between modern Naples, Italy, and its medieval past that Merete Weiss knits into an original mystery . . . Even Captain Natalia Monte of the Carabinieri and her Buddhist partner are intriguing opposites in their temperaments and their approaches to an investigation.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eCharlotte Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Weiss has done her homework, walked the pestilent streets, prowled the catacombs below the city, and created a thoroughly human woman who will do what she must to protect her part of a city that both enchants and infuriates her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Margaret Maron, author of The Deborah Knott Series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Naples may be a city of charm and history, but it festers with crime, whether individual or organized. And it forms the backdrop for Jan Merete Weiss' absorbing debut novel . . . Weiss invests her debut with a plot replete with shocks, her characters—even the minor ones—are drawn with care and come alive as complete beings on the page, and her vivid portrayal of Naples, in its glory and its gloom, is unforgettable .\u003ci\u003e . . These Dark Things\u003c\/i\u003e tells a dark story and marks the beginning of what promises to be a bright series.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Full of intriguing contradictions and cultural clashes between modern Naples and its past, and Merete Weiss confidently weaves them into this distinctive mystery.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eMilwaukee Journal-Sentinel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“The most intriguing aspect of this appealing debut is the female perspective it offers on the Neapolitan criminal underworld, both from Natalia’s side as a Carabinieri officer and from the points of view of the women who work for the Camorra. Full of vibrant descriptions of Naples and boasting a solid mystery plot, \u003ci\u003eThese Dark Things\u003c\/i\u003e heralds the arrival of a most promising series. Recommend it, in particular, to fans of Michael Genelin’s Jana Matinova series.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just when we thought all the possible plots had been taken, Weiss brings us a new police procedural set in Naples, Italy, that taxes the brain and gives us pause for the future of society . . . Natalia’s a favorite type of heroine because she’s no saint herself, so dig in and prepare to be riveted by this intense and violent read. VERDICT: Natalia represents a new era in Italian culture in which women can operate effectively as authority figures. For all readers who love a complex story fraught with tough decisions about friendship, family loyalties, and justice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Absorbing. . . . The corruption of the Neapolitan bureaucracy, mirrored by the stench from uncollected garbage in the streets, taints but cannot overcome the vitality of the city. Weiss renders its bustling trattorias and colorful neighborhoods with flair.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eJan Merete Weiss grew up in Puerto Rico. She studied poetry and painting at the Massachusetts College of Art and received a Master's degree from NYU.  Her poems have appeared in various literary magazines. She lives in New York and lectures at Lehman College.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA large cypress tree arched over the graves, and a few\u003cbr\u003eclouds the color of peaches. The horizon glowed. The Neapolitan\u003cbr\u003esun hadn’t yet begun her climb. Gina Falcone surveyed\u003cbr\u003ethe newest additions beneath the burlap on her cart.\u003cbr\u003eBesides the midsized tibia, a rib cage, and a large femur,\u003cbr\u003ethere was a child’s skull. Male or female, the bone cleaner\u003cbr\u003edidn’t know. Nor did she care. The recent dead troubled\u003cbr\u003eher no more than the bones of the plague victims from\u003cbr\u003ecenturies ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt Via della Piazzola, she entered the old section of the\u003cbr\u003ecity. Most of the red paint was chipped off her cart. The\u003cbr\u003ebare metal wheels ground against the black flagstones.\u003cbr\u003eWalking past tiny dark alleys, the \u003ci\u003evichi\u003c\/i\u003e, she imagined the\u003cbr\u003eomnibuses draped in black that had waited, centuries ago,\u003cbr\u003efor the priests and stretcher-bearers to carry out the cadavers\u003cbr\u003eduring the plague epidemic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a block more to the Church of Santa Maria delle\u003cbr\u003eAnime del Purgatorio. Outside the flower shop, a middleaged\u003cbr\u003etourist, her hair rumpled from sleep, was bent over\u003cbr\u003ethe buckets, inhaling the jasmine. Gina passed like a\u003cbr\u003eshadow come loose from a building. She adjusted the bag\u003cbr\u003eon the cart as it banged along the cobblestones. Market\u003cbr\u003estalls clustered under medieval arches. The fishmonger\u003cbr\u003edumped mussels onto a bed of ice. Across the way, the\u003cbr\u003echeese man hollered up to his wife, who scowled and lowered\u003cbr\u003ea basket from their window. He removed keys and\u003cbr\u003esubstituted butter and a loaf of bread.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003e’Giorno\u003c\/i\u003e, Signora,” called a robust man arranging burntorange\u003cbr\u003eapricots in his shop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003e’Giorno\u003c\/i\u003e, Nico,” she replied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNear the back of the shop, Nico’s mother sat crocheting.\u003cbr\u003eEveryone knew not to touch the fruit. You pointed to what\u003cbr\u003eyou wanted and he made the selections, weighed and\u003cbr\u003ebagged the apples or grapes, and you paid. Gina Falcone\u003cbr\u003edisregarded the convention. Nico didn’t like it but never\u003cbr\u003eobjected, even when she ate a piece of fruit without paying.\u003cbr\u003eOr grabbed a pear to test its ripeness and sent a half dozen\u003cbr\u003eothers rolling across the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat she did holy work and could intercede for souls waylaid\u003cbr\u003ein purgatory—like Nico’s grandmother—kept him from\u003cbr\u003esaying anything to her. Gina Falcone was among the last of\u003cbr\u003ethe bone cleaners. Officially, second burials had ceased\u003cbr\u003edecades ago. It was an ancient practice going back to the\u003cbr\u003eEgyptians. The mourners waited a year for the flesh to\u003cbr\u003edecompose, then disinterred the bones. Some placed them\u003cbr\u003ein an ossuary, a bone box, for the second burial. Or the few\u003cbr\u003eremaining bone cleaners, like Gina, collected them from the\u003cbr\u003egrave keepers and carried them to their rest in certain Naples\u003cbr\u003echurches where the practice was still quietly tolerated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCiao\u003c\/i\u003e, Gina,” Nico said, charging her a token for the fruit\u003cbr\u003eshe’d taken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crossed the street to the church, a dark structure\u003cbr\u003eamid the crumbling ochre buildings that surrounded it. A\u003cbr\u003esunflower, a rose, and a stem of mimosa rested in the iron\u003cbr\u003egates. Four bronze skulls and femurs sat atop four short\u003cbr\u003ecolumns. The skulls gleamed, polished daily by the passersby\u003cbr\u003ewho touched them. Santa Maria delle Anime del Purgatorio.\u003cbr\u003eVagrants dozed in the shadows of the black stones,\u003cbr\u003ethe Church being too stingy to invite them in but not heartless\u003cbr\u003eenough to forbid them a concrete bed outside its\u003cbr\u003edoors. The odor of urine was strong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePurgatorio was four centuries old, built around the time\u003cbr\u003ethe Cult of the Dead took hold in Naples, when Jesuits\u003cbr\u003ecelebrated sixty masses a day on its altars. They preached\u003cbr\u003eamong skulls and skeletons laid out on black cloth. The\u003cbr\u003epriests hadn’t held ecstatic services here in many years.\u003cbr\u003eGina missed them and the large crowds of parishioners\u003cbr\u003ecarrying torches and flashlights in procession, descending\u003cbr\u003eto the crypts where each would select a skull to pray over.\u003cbr\u003eThe faithful still climbed down into the crypts to wash\u003cbr\u003ebones and privately pray for those in limbo, souls that had\u003cbr\u003eleft this world but not yet reached the next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the end of the Second World War, Gina Falcone had\u003cbr\u003edug up the remains of her young husband and another\u003cbr\u003efallen soldier and prepared them for their second burial.\u003cbr\u003eShe felt called to continue, and her work began. For a long\u003cbr\u003etime, business was brisk, but it had slowed during the past\u003cbr\u003edecade. Signora Falcone survived on a small stipend from\u003cbr\u003ethe Neapolitan Burial Society and donations from the\u003cbr\u003ebereaved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChurch bells tolled eight times. The madwoman on Vico\u003cbr\u003edel Sole screamed “\u003ci\u003eAttenzione\u003c\/i\u003e,” as she had every morning\u003cbr\u003efor years. “\u003ci\u003eSono malata!\u003c\/i\u003e” I am ill. “\u003ci\u003eIl pericolo. Il pericolo\u003c\/i\u003e.” The\u003cbr\u003edanger. The danger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA dozen people waited to enter the sanctuary—two\u003cbr\u003ewomen for every man. Some fingered their rosaries, prayed\u003cbr\u003eunder their breath. Tonio the Dwarf stood at the front. A\u003cbr\u003egang of pigeons pecked at scattered breadcrumbs around\u003cbr\u003etheir feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Away!” Gina cried, waving her arms. They warbled in\u003cbr\u003eprotest, ruffling their wings, lifting a foot before alighting\u003cbr\u003eagain. She knew who was responsible: Uccello Camillo.\u003cbr\u003e“Bird” Camillo’s pockets bulged with crumbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bone cleaner mumbled and grabbed her cart. The\u003cbr\u003efaithful moved aside to let her through to deliver the new\u003cbr\u003ebones before they entered and descended. Tonio stepped\u003cbr\u003eout of the line to help lift the cart up the steps to the\u003cbr\u003enarrow church entrance. Gina handed him a key. Tonio\u003cbr\u003ewas barely taller than the keyhole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Needs oil,” he said, working it into the lock. He pushed\u003cbr\u003eopen the wooden door in to the dark interior. The only\u003cbr\u003ebright spot was the white altar. At its foot, purple and white\u003cbr\u003echrysanthemums wilted in a vase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGina rolled the cart inside and leaned it against the last\u003cbr\u003epew, a simple wooden bench without a cushion. She made\u003cbr\u003ethe sign of the cross and took the bag from the cart. Gina\u003cbr\u003eFalcone could find her way anywhere in the church with\u003cbr\u003eher eyes closed. She dragged the bones past the altar and\u003cbr\u003ethrough a small door that led to the crypt. Bones in one\u003cbr\u003ehand, with the other she felt her way down the long\u003cbr\u003enarrow staircase. Her eyes adjusted. At the very bottom\u003cbr\u003ewas a faint light. Candles, left perhaps by someone the\u003cbr\u003eprevious day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe crypt comprised several rooms. In the first, skulls\u003cbr\u003ewere piled and stacked everywhere: on the ground, in\u003cbr\u003eniches cut into the walls. A shrine with a lone skull strewn\u003cbr\u003ewith dead flowers rested atop a mound of leg bones. Gina\u003cbr\u003eFalcone shifted a decayed sunflower to a flat tin tray layered\u003cbr\u003ewith finger bones and more skulls. She passed through\u003cbr\u003ea hallway of tombstones into the larger burial room. This\u003cbr\u003egallery was filled floor to ceiling with yet more skulls and\u003cbr\u003ebones piled neatly in niches. Some eye sockets held slips of\u003cbr\u003epaper: messages from worshippers, personal information\u003cbr\u003eabout the deceased gleaned in dreams about them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the room’s center was a bench carved from volcanic\u003cbr\u003estone. There was an armrest and a hole in its seat. In times\u003cbr\u003epast, the body was placed there, for the flesh to rot away,\u003cbr\u003ethe putrefied fluids to pour into the drain below. \u003ci\u003ePuozzà\u003cbr\u003eSculà!\u003c\/i\u003e May you drain away—a taunt still heard in the streets.\u003cbr\u003eIt was quiet. Dank and peaceful. Gina stopped short\u003cbr\u003ebefore a stack of skeletons. Half reclining on the bench,\u003cbr\u003eresting her chin on her hands, was an angel, her face pearly\u003cbr\u003eand framed in wavy red hair. Lovely, all in pink. At her pale\u003cbr\u003ethroat, a beautiful necklace glinted with rubies and pearls.\u003cbr\u003eGina stepped closer to gaze at the red blossom near her\u003cbr\u003eheart. There were no petals, only the hilt of a large knife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe call came in to the Carabinieri regional station on Via\u003cbr\u003eCasanova, as Captain Natalia Monte finished her twentyfour-\u003cbr\u003ehour sleepover duty. She swung her feet to the floor\u003cbr\u003eand tried to clear her vision.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why not the police?” she demanded of her dispatcher.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The body was found at a cultural shrine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Damn,” she muttered. Protection of cultural institutions\u003cbr\u003ewas one of the Carabinieri’s odd areas of responsibility,\u003cbr\u003eanswering as they did partly to the Ministries of the\u003cbr\u003eInterior, Exterior, and Defense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCursing, Captain Monte pulled on her uniform jacket and\u003cbr\u003eclosed the knot of her tie, splashed water on her face, wet her\u003cbr\u003efingers again, and tamped down her curls. They had sprung\u003cbr\u003eback up by the time she descended the three flights to the\u003cbr\u003estreet and her duty car and driver. Getting in beside him,\u003cbr\u003eshe closed her eyes and tried to doze as they headed for the\u003cbr\u003ecrime scene.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFather Cirillo, the monsignor, was waiting for her at the\u003cbr\u003eentrance to the church, his ample stomach straining\u003cbr\u003eagainst the mended cassock he’d donned for this task.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank God you’re here,” he said, coming up to Natalia\u003cbr\u003eas she buckled on her holster. “I was at breakfast when I\u003cbr\u003eheard the commotion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTogether they entered the church. Near the altar, he\u003cbr\u003epointed to a door, hardly noticeable. Natalia ducked to\u003cbr\u003eavoid hitting her head passing through. “Careful,” he said,\u003cbr\u003eturning to her as they felt their way down the dark stairs\u003cbr\u003etoward the lantern light below.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wait,” she ordered. Someone was coming up the stairs\u003cbr\u003etoward them. Natalia drew her pistol as a small man came\u003cbr\u003earound a turn in the stairwell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t shoot!” he screamed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Luca, you idiot. I ought to put you out of your misery.\u003cbr\u003eIf you’ve disturbed anything—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing, Captain. Not ever.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNatalia holstered her weapon. Luca was an old freelance\u003cbr\u003ephotographer with a lens for a brain. A nocturnal creature,\u003cbr\u003ehe lived for a good murder. Half the time, he arrived at the\u003cbr\u003escene before the police or the Carabinieri. Luca pressed\u003cbr\u003epast them in the stairwell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Monsignor,” he touched his cap. “Captain Monte.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNatalia glared at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh,” he said, stopping. “Where was she killed?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNatalia pointed upward, saying nothing. Luca scurried\u003cbr\u003etoward the surface.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey passed through a large cavernous room, through a\u003cbr\u003elong hallway, and into a third room, each decorated with\u003cbr\u003ecenturies of bones piled onto one another, some organized\u003cbr\u003einto categories, some arranged in eerie patterns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She’s in here,” the monsignor said. Natalia paused to\u003cbr\u003ebrush dust from her uniform. Despite the Armani design,\u003cbr\u003eit was wrinkled from the long night and now covered with\u003cbr\u003egrit. The red bands running down her pant legs were\u003cbr\u003egrimy, like her, like the cuffs and collar of her white shirt.\u003cbr\u003eA beautiful girl sat on a stone bench in the center of the\u003cbr\u003eroom. Ethereal. Pre-Raphaelite. She did look like an\u003cbr\u003eangel—a bloody one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As you may have gathered,” Father Cirillo said, “this\u003cbr\u003echamber was used several hundred years ago for burials\u003cbr\u003eduring the plague outbreaks. She’s posed like someone\u003cbr\u003emight have been in the seventeenth century. I’ve never\u003cbr\u003eseen anything like this except in illustrations.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was babbling. Natalia wished he wouldn’t. She\u003cbr\u003estepped closer, examining the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCommuning with the dead. Many in Naples still did it.\u003cbr\u003eWhen Natalia was a girl, her mother’s mother—Natalia’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003enonna\u003c\/i\u003e—had gone weekly to the crypt where her sister’s\u003cbr\u003ebones were displayed. Sometimes she took her granddaughter.\u003cbr\u003eNonna made herself comfortable on a chair provided\u003cbr\u003ethere. If there were no other visitors, the clicking of\u003cbr\u003eher knitting needles was often the only sound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuch a gloomy city, Natalia thought, but what could you\u003cbr\u003eexpect in a metropolis where people actually dressed in\u003cbr\u003eblack so as not to be mistaken by the dead as living souls\u003cbr\u003eripe for haunting? A miracle that anyone got out of bed in\u003cbr\u003ethe morning at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe monsignor was still lecturing. Cirillo was an amateur\u003cbr\u003escholar and led occasional tours of his church and the surrounding\u003cbr\u003eneighborhood. Natalia had seen him holding\u003cbr\u003eforth outside the church just the past spring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re too young to remember World War II. Bombs\u003cbr\u003edropped on Naples every day. Twenty thousand people\u003cbr\u003etook refuge down here and in passages and cisterns carved\u003cbr\u003eby the Romans in the volcanic rock beneath the city.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, Monsignor.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was not much evidence of blood anywhere in the\u003cbr\u003eroom. Murdered elsewhere. Maybe choked at the same\u003cbr\u003etime, given the marks under her jawline. And seriously\u003cbr\u003estabbed. Twice. The back of the dress was as red with dry\u003cbr\u003eblood as the front was pinkish white.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSkulls ringed the victim in a half circle. Lilies rotted near\u003cbr\u003eher feet, their scent cloying. A candle burned. The victim\u003cbr\u003ewas fair with a smattering of freckles, traces of lipstick visible\u003cbr\u003eon her mouth. A girl adorned for life’s pleasures.\u003cbr\u003eNatalia walked the perimeter of the room, peering\u003cbr\u003ebehind stacks of leg bones, wrist bones, finger bones, and\u003cbr\u003eskulls. No weapon; only bones and crumbled rock. Something\u003cbr\u003eglinted from the rubble. Natalia stepped closer. She\u003cbr\u003eslipped her gloves on and picked it up. A small silver heart,\u003cbr\u003euntouched by the dust—an ex-voto, a votive offering.\u003cbr\u003eSixteenth-century worshippers had left them as offerings\u003cbr\u003eto the saints in gratitude for healing a broken limb, a diseased\u003cbr\u003elung. Clerics as well as laypeople believed in them.\u003cbr\u003eNowadays, most considered them quaint. Most, but not all.\u003cbr\u003eEx-votos were usually miniature replicas of hands and\u003cbr\u003efeet or lungs. A heart was unusual. It suggested someone\u003cbr\u003eunsophisticated. Or was that a ruse? Did this poor girl’s\u003cbr\u003edeath cure someone of heartbreak? A spurned lover? Or a\u003cbr\u003emad person? Maybe both and the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“‘The Cult of the Dead,’ the worshippers of the bones\u003cbr\u003ewere called,” Father Cirillo began.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Natalia had been a girl, on All Souls’ Night her\u003cbr\u003efather would put a bucket of water outside their front door.\u003cbr\u003e“So the dead can drink as they enter the house,” he’d say.\u003cbr\u003eThe next morning, when she would point out that the level\u003cbr\u003eof the water was unchanged, her mother had spat to make\u003cbr\u003esure her daughter hadn’t aroused the evil eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They get thirsty,” her mother scolded. “Mix this.” She\u003cbr\u003epushed a bowl of dough to her daughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was to make \u003ci\u003efave dei morti\u003c\/i\u003e—the broad beans of the\u003cbr\u003edead, the dough molded into the shape of bones. Not a\u003cbr\u003eNeapolitan tradition. Natalia’s mother had learned to\u003cbr\u003emake the cakes from her cousin Rosalia, married to a carpenter\u003cbr\u003efrom Tuscany. Long after Cousin Rosalia passed and\u003cbr\u003eevery November until her own death, her mother\u003cbr\u003econtinued baking them. To honor Rosalia’s memory, she\u003cbr\u003esaid. And hedge her bets, Natalia thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore they kneaded the dough or enjoyed the tasty\u003cbr\u003ecakes, Natalia’s mother repeated the prayer from the Cult\u003cbr\u003eof the Dead: “\u003ci\u003eSante Anime del Purgatorio pregate per noi che\u003cbr\u003epregiamo per voi\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHoly Saints of Purgatory, we beseech you to pray for us\u003cbr\u003eas we pray for you.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303243731173,"sku":"NP9781616950767","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616950767.jpg?v=1767742414","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/these-dark-things-isbn-9781616950767","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}