Carolyn doesn’t call me on Sunday, or on Monday, although we exchange several text conversations. She’s completely wrapped up in the business with the boutique.

I walked by later on Sunday evening and she was still there with two of her employees. The glass had been swept into a pile on the edge of the sidewalk.

She didn’t see me, but I saw her. The compassion in her face was as genuine as her voice had been on the phone when the first call came in. Before I turned away, she finished speaking, and the three women turned toward the display racks together, Carolyn saying something that made them laugh.

How can she be so wonderful, yet clearly be hiding something from me?

On Monday, after I’ve returned from the office, I dial one of the Italian numbers. A man with a clean British accent answers the phone, announcing that I’ve reached a travel agency with one branch in Rome.

“I’m sorry. I’ve dialed the wrong number.”

Could it be that Carolyn is planning an Italian vacation? Is that seriously what I’ve been worked up about all this time? The name of the travel agency doesn’t ring any bells. Why should it? I never used a travel agency when I lived in Italy.

The second number also connects me with someone who speaks English with a British accent—a woman who answers the phone with a clipped “Aida.”

I was expecting another company, an organization, but I’m not sure why Aida’s voice catches me off guard the way it does.

“Oh—” I say. “I’m sorry.” But I forget to tell her that I have the wrong number.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“Actually, yes. Have you ever heard of—” I stop myself before I can complete the sentence. What am I doing? What business of mine is it that Carolyn has called a couple of people in Italy? For all I know, this Aida is a friend of hers. Most of us do have international acquaintances. It wouldn’t be odd.

“No,” I say firmly. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Have a good—” Italy is six hours ahead, so… “—evening.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

At least Aida doesn’t seem fazed by this at all.

I’m turning into a wreck.

Carolyn did not respond to that declaration well at all. And maybe it’s because I didn’t plan it. Maybe it’s because I blurted it out to stop myself from telling her that I overheard the strange phone call. It’s still true, though. Every other indication tells me that she feels the same way, so why the weird, guilty look?

Am I getting entrapped into another no-win situation, like with Elisa?

The memory of her giggling in one of the markets in Rome makes my stomach knot up. Things can go so wrong, if you’re not careful.

How do I fix this?

On Tuesday, she texts me at about three o’clock, and the sight of her name makes my heart flutter, despite the churning in my gut about everything else.

Meet me at my place. 5:30?

Done.

Her spare key has been tucked in my pocket, going with me everywhere, since she gave it to me on Sunday.

Another text comes in.

I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to talk with you. Let’s figure this out.

So she feels it too—the unrest, the unease.

The only issue now is that I can’t sit in this office and wait any longer. Not now. Not today.

I open my email and write a hasty out-of-office message telling everyone I’ll be back tomorrow, turn off the screen, and pick up my phone from my desk.

Noah is waiting at the curb when I get there.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t stop my jaw from clenching. “The penthouse.”

“No problem.” He says it calmly, neutrally, but I see his worried look in the rearview mirror. Maybe I’ll tell him what’s been going on. After it’s over and done with.

I take the elevator up to the penthouse and strip off my clothes. The heat of the water is relaxing, and I stand under the stream for twenty minutes before I can bring myself to get out and shave. I go with a similar outfit—dress slacks and a button-down—but this time I push the sleeves up to my elbows and leave the top button undone.

If Carolyn decides to come home early, I’m going to be waiting for her.

I’m not in her apartment thirty seconds when there’s a knock at the door.

A courier stands outside. “Carolyn Banks’ place?”

“Yes, but—”

He shoves an envelope into my hands and turns on his heel, typing something into a handheld device.

Okay.

I close the door. Where the hell am I going to put this thing? It’s fairly large, at least the size of a file folder, and it has some weight to it.

I flip it over to look at the address.

When I see where it’s from, my heart plummets to my feet. It’s from Italy. From a woman named Aida Russo. The same woman who answered the phone.

The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. Is this confirmation for some kind of trip? My heart hammers against my rib cage. I’m so curious that I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit here with it until 5:30.

I go into the living room and toss it onto the table. That’s when it becomes clear that the tape sealing one end of the envelope has been damaged in transit, because a sheaf of papers comes out nearly halfway.

I pick it up automatically to shuffle the papers back in place, but I can’t resist. I can’t resist turning it over.

On the top sheet, there’s my name. And a picture of me.

It says “Investigative Report: Ace Kingsley.”