Two grueling days dealing with police reports and inventory replacements and having the front window glass newly installed, and all I can think about is what an asshole I was to Ace.

All I can think about is how I should have responded right way.

When I sign in to Rainflower Blue on Monday afternoon, I’m blown away by the traffic.

It’s still booming, and there are more threads than ever about Ace Kingsley.

And me.

Carolyn Banks dating a murderer?

There’s even a thread about what happened to the boutique.

If you ask me, she deserved it, writes an anonymous user about halfway down the thread. That’s what you get for dating someone who’s done such heinous things to women.

The farther down I scroll, the worse it gets. Theories about what happened to his wife, who is as of yet unnamed, which has to be some kind of miracle. Theories that he’s still married and is on the run. Theories that the Italian government is running a cover-up for him.

It turns my stomach.

This is how I’m making all my money, and it’s wrong.

I’m going to start by telling Ace everything—everything—and letting the chips fall where they may.

For the first time, I can see it: that I deserve to lose him, and other good men, if this is the kind of life I’m going to lead, if I’m going to keep an open platform for witch hunts while I drag my heels confirming it.

Jesus, why should I? That’s the real question. Why should I confirm or deny anything? If anyone wants to know my opinion on any kind of situation, they can ask me.

My God.

I text him with fingers that shake and hit the wrong keys.

Meet me at my place. 5:30?

It takes almost no time for him to reply.

Done.

Maybe it’s overboard, but I send him one last message:

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

There’s radio silence, and it makes me nervous as hell.

When my phone vibrates again forty-five minutes later, I snatch it up, sure that it’s Ace, sure that he needed a little while to reply. He could have been in a meeting. He could have been doing anything.

But it’s not from Ace. It’s from Aida.

Results were delivered to your place minutes ago. They’ll be waiting for you.

Thanks.

I put my phone back down in its place near the register, trying not to frown too much and alarm anyone else in the store.

It’s odd that Aida wouldn’t have sent the information—whatever it is—to my apartment without confirming that it was placed into my hands, but maybe things are different in Italy. Gerard would never dream of it.

I shrug a little and shake it off. Oh, well. The likely scenario is that they slipped it under the door and it’ll be waiting for me when I return.

That means I need to leave a little early.

At four-fifteen I tell Natalie I have some errands to run. She gives me a nervous nod.

“Don’t worry. I made sure the police are running rounds on the block all the time for at least the next couple of weeks. Plus, I’ve got Sara coming in to help you close.”

“Thanks, Carolyn.” Her cheeks go pink with relief. The break-in seems to have shaken her much more than it did me, even though nobody was at the boutique when it happened. Discovering it must have been horribly unsettling.

I walk the three blocks home in the cool September air, treasuring the late afternoon sun on my face and trying to stop my heart from pounding.

This isn’t going to be a fun conversation. But when it’s over, we’ll both know exactly where we stand, and that’s what I want. I love him enough to ignore these rumors, and he loves me enough to know that my feelings for him are separate from the jobs I do.

I hope.

The doorman, Arnie, traps me into a conversation in the lobby, so I spend five minutes talking to him about the beautiful weather before I can extricate myself. I hope Ace hasn’t come home from work early for this. A few minutes is all I need…

The moment Arnie sets me free, I race for the elevator, then hurry down the hallway to my door.

The moment I put the key in the lock, I know something is wrong. There’s no resistance, like there would be if the door was locked from the inside.

I take my key out and push the door open slowly. Did I forget to lock it this morning when I left for work? Did Ace—God forbid—show up early and forget to lock it behind him?

I know immediately that the second scenario has played out when I step into the entryway.

I know immediately that things are even worse.

Because Ace stands at the end of the hall leading into the living room, a large envelope in his hands.

By the look on his face, he’s seen the contents.

He knows.

He knows.

I feel my face go pale.

“Ace, I—” I want to be angry that he opened my mail, but I can’t begin to choke those kinds of accusations out. My heart beats slower, clenched in a cold fist. All I want to do is explain this to him, to take the pain away from his face. “I can explain all of this—”

“Can you?” His voice is low and sharp and angry. “Can you tell me why there’s an investigative report from someone in Italy in your apartment? Can you tell me why that would possibly be necessary?”

Every word is a slash of a knife to my gut.

“You shouldn’t have opened my mail,” I whisper, and even as I say it, I know it’s the beginning of the disaster.