I still can’t do it.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He lets it drop.
By the time we’re finished eating, I’ve had enough food to last me three days, which is the one thing that lulls me into sleep.
By Sunday morning, I truly can’t stand it anymore. The hours crawl by and the ache in my chest only gets stronger.
Finally, at noon, I lunge up from my armchair, sticking my keys into my pocket.
I’m going down to see her.
I’ve done everything I can to stay away from her, and it’s not working anymore. If I don’t see her face within the next ten minutes, my heart is going to explode.
It only occurs to me in the elevator that she might not be home.
When it lets me off on her floor, I hurry down the hall, stopping dead in front of her door.
Her voice comes into the hallway, muffled slightly by the doorway, and a smile spreads across my face.
I raise my hand to knock, but something makes me draw up short. It’s the sound of my own name.
She just be standing right on the other side of the doorway, but I don’t hear anyone else talking, so she must be on the phone, but I hear it clearly: “Ace Kingsley. K-I-N-G-S-L-E-Y.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“New York now, but he only came back recently.”
Who the fuck is she talking to about me? A girlfriend? It seems pretty damn weird to spell a last name like that.
There’s another pause, and my shoulders tense. Is she about to walk out of the door right now and catch me eavesdropping? That would be awkward as fuck, but there’s a strange spark in my chest that makes me think I wouldn’t care at all.
“Let me know what you find out.”
There’s another rustling. She must be going through her purse, which hangs on a hook in the front entry.
Well, fuck it.
I raise my hand back up and knock on the door with confidence, three times.
Then I wait for the silence to break.
Chapter 29
Carolyn
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 has to be 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 anyway?
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, just 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?”