On Sunday morning, I sit at my desk and stare out the window for a full five minutes, my hands hovering over the keyboard of my laptop.

The travel agent didn’t reveal much, but this isn’t the end of the line. I can always look for information from sources in Bari, but where do I even begin?

The answer comes to me in a flash so obvious that it makes me think being in love has turned my brain to useless mush.

Gerard is my first call.

I haven’t used his services as a private investigator in at least two years because it always makes me feel vaguely slimy to hire a professional to go undercover to confirm rumors, but sometimes—if they’re egregious enough, and if the site gets fixated to a ridiculous degree—I’ve paid him to get the job done so I can give out a Magnolia confirmation.

His specialty is obviously New York City, but people like Gerard know other people, and if anyone knows a person on the ground in Italy, it’s going to be him.

He answers on the second ring. “Jones.”

I’m digging through my purse while I make the call, trying to find the pens that are constantly disappearing from my desk.

“Hi, Gerard. It’s Carolyn.”

“Carolyn!” he says, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from me. We usually meet at a discreet bar to discuss the results of his investigations, and he’s an excellent conversationalist—if completely not my type. “Are you calling about a job?”

“Don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” he jokes. “You need a number.”

“I do.”

“Who for?”

“Do you have any associates in Italy, by any chance?”

He pauses for a moment, and I pin all my hopes on the next words to come out of his mouth. “I do know someone there. Her name is Aida.” He rattles off the number and I thank him profusely. I want to get this woman on the phone before too much more of the day goes by. Though…it is Sunday, so how much can she get done?

It doesn’t matter. I dial the number.

It rings four times, and then a woman’s voice, one with a British accent, answers on the other end of the line. “Aida,” she says, no last name.

My shoulders tense up. I hope she’s as professional as Gerard. I don’t think he’d recommend someone sloppy to me, but if you don’t meet in person, there’s a better chance people won’t take you seriously.

I explain to her who I am and how I got her contact information, and God bless her, she doesn’t ask any questions. She runs through the arrangements for paying her. “Five thousand up front,” she says in a tone that brooks no negotiation. The other ten when I have all the necessary information.”

“Agreed,” I say.

“What am I looking for?”

I tell her the bare outlines of Ace Kingsley’s story, realizing in the middle of the telling that there’s not much to go on. “There’s a rumor going around the city that he murdered his wife. I want to know who his wife was, if she died, and if he had a hand in it.” A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. This part—this is business. It takes a minute to separate it from how I feel about him.

“Spell his name for me?” I imagine Aida with a dark notebook of some kind, scribbling down details on the other side of the ocean.

“Ace Kingsley. K-I-N-G-S-L-E-Y.”

“And you’re prepared to learn an answer that might not be favorable?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in the United States currently?”

“New York now, but he only came back recently.”

“I’ll begin work immediately.”

“Let me know what you find out,” I say lamely, but she’s already ended the call.

There’s a strange tightness in my chest. What was I looking for in the purse? I can’t remember. Do I want to find this out about Ace?

Will it make me love him any less?

There’s a loud knock at the door—the hand on the other side comes down three times—and I almost jump out of my skin. I’m three feet from the door. My cheeks go red and hot, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit, illegal.

Trying to get my pounding heart under control, I go to the door and peer out the peephole. When I see Ace standing in the hall, my heart sinks.

What if he heard me?

My first instinct is to retreat from the door, pad silently into my bedroom, and pretend I’m not here.

But that would make me a pathetic coward. Instead, I pull open the door and do my best to look excited.

“Ace! I thought you were busy this weekend. Did you get done early?”

In spite of myself, I am happy to see him. The warmth of the happiness conflicts with the burning guilt churning in my gut.

There’s something strange flashing in his eyes, but Ace runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I did.” He searches my face. Jesus, did he overhear what I was saying? How much did he hear? It nearly undoes me.

The urge to tell him—to come clean, to not have any more secrets from him—is so overpowering that I open my mouth to do it, to release myself from the pressure of this secret career, to set him free of what he heard, if it was anything at all. But before I can get the words out, he steps forward, takes me into his arms, and kisses me so hard it bruises my lips. He’s in the entryway and kicks the door shut behind him pressing me up against the wall.

“I couldn’t wait to see you,” he growls into my mouth between kisses. “I couldn’t wait another second.”