by Lisa Harris
She fought to push away the memories. She could go home, pack up a bag and take a train to Naples. Or maybe she’d go across the border into France. But that would only delay the inevitable. Until she found the paintings, and discovered who was after them, this wasn’t going to be over. And she wasn’t going to find out the truth by running.
The sun had slipped behind a line of clouds by the time she made it to her stop and climbed the long flight of stairs to the street level. She breathed in the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery nestled beneath her apartment building, wanting to turn back time to yesterday, when everything had felt normal. She’d fallen in love with the area the first time she’d visited. Ivy leaves climbed the sides of the century-old building, with its green shutters and flower boxes. Laundry blew in the breeze on a clothing line on the second story. She glanced at the glass display case in the bakery window. Flaky croissants filled with homemade custard, cannoli and her favorite, chocolate mousse on a chocolate biscuit covered in dark chocolate… She wished she could stop now and consume one; it’d be a stress reliever.
Instead her phone rang. A wave of adrenaline rushed through her as she pulled it out of her pocket. If it was them again…
She checked the caller ID and hesitated.
She recognized the area code. It was someone from Texas. She opened the door to the apartment building and took the call.
“Hello?”
“Talia…it’s Captain Blythe.”
She started up the narrow flight of stairs to her apartment on the fifth floor. It had been months since she’d heard from the department where her husband had once worked. “I was actually planning to call you today. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.” There was a pause on the line. “Listen, I felt you needed to know that your husband’s case has been reopened. The gun that killed him was involved in another, more recent murder.”
Hearing him repeat what Joe had just told her made the situation seem so much more real.
“The FBI’s gotten involved,” he continued. “There’s an agent—”
“Joe Bryant,” she said, finishing his sentence. “He’s with the FBI and here in Rome. I just met him.”
“So you know about the reopened case?”
“Yes,” said, starting for the third floor. “Can I trust him?”
“I didn’t meet him, but the chief did and was impressed when the guy came by. He believes there were pieces of stolen art at the raid where your husband died, which is the reason the FBI is involved. The bottom line is that maybe after all this time they’ll find out who killed Thomas.”
She was breathing harder as she took the last flight of stairs to the top floor. This was the closure she’d prayed for. They’d never been able to find the owner of the gun. Never been able to find who’d pulled the trigger and murdered Thomas.
The case is breaking open again, God. I didn’t want to go there, but if this ends up helping me put it all behind me for good…
That was what she needed.
“I won’t keep you,” Captain Blythe said, interrupting her thoughts, “but if you need anything, call me.”
She said goodbye and hung up, wondering if she should have told him about the threats. But something had made her hesitate. Joe had implied that his reopening up the case had prompted someone to come after the paintings. But did that mean that someone else—someone inside the department—had been involved in Thomas’s death?
She pulled out her key and opened the front door to her apartment loft, trying to make sense of everything. The implications of the matching bullets, the text messages and inconsistencies she’d seen with the case… The man she’d married never would have been involved in stealing evidence, but she’d never been able to get anyone to listen to her. And eventually she’d come to accept that Thomas wasn’t the person she’d known all those years.
Inside the one-bedroom apartment, the space was a small, open layout with a cozy terrace and views of the neighboring rooftops and monuments in the distance. But it wasn’t the familiar layout of home that caught her attention as she stepped into the room. Someone had been here. Talia felt a sick feeling wash over her, along with a wave of panic. Books had been pulled down from their shelves, red couch cushions and half a dozen throw pillows lay scattered across the hardwood floor, while her artwork had been ripped from the walls. She picked up the shattered glass frame holding the photo of her with her parents and little sister that had been taken before her mom and dad had been killed in a car wreck.
Who had done this?
Wind blew through the open terrace door, causing the white sheer curtains she’d picked up at a local flea market to flutter in the breeze. Something clattered against the floor in the bedroom. She froze beside the kitchen counter. Whoever had trashed her house was still here. Without thinking, she set down the photo, grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen counter and started for her bedroom.
When she stepped through the doorway, he was going through her dresser—the same man who’d grabbed her bag outside the Colosseum. Her intrusion into the room seemed to startle him for a second, then he pulled a gun out of its holster and pointed it at her.
“You should have shown up with the paintings,” he said in English with a thick Italian accent. “Toss me your bag.”
She hesitated, then threw it at him, still holding the knife. But the blade would be useless against a man with a loaded gun. He dumped the contents on her bed, scattering them across the dark blue bedspread.
She gripped the handle of the knife between her fingers.
“They’re not here,” he said, rummaging through her things. “The paintings. Where are they?”
“I don’t have them.” Talia fought to keep her voice steady. “I never did.”
He shook his head as if trying to figure out his next move. Light streamed in from the bedroom window. The man was in his mid-to-late twenties. Brown eyes. Dark hair with a streak of blond across his bangs.
He took a step forward. “I was told you’d say that. You knew you couldn’t fence the art right after your husband’s death, so you decided to be patient and wait to sell them.”
She shook her head. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I wouldn’t cross the person I work for. They were involved in the death of your husband, they’ll kill again if they have to.”
“Over a piece of art?” She pressed her lips together, trying to fight the panic. But that wasn’t the only thing that sent a chill through her. He knew who’d killed her husband.
The intruder didn’t answer her question. But he didn’t have to.
“I don’t have them,” she repeated.
“And I said I don’t believe you. They were in your husband’s personal items, which were later given to you by the police.”
As he moved to the smaller bedside table, his gun still pointed in her direction, another memory surfaced. A few weeks after Thomas had died someone had broken into their house while she’d been out visiting with a friend. The only things that had been taken were a few pieces of her jewelry. At the time, she’d thought it was nothing more than a random breakin, but now… What if there was another explanation? What if the thief had been looking for something specific, like three valuable paintings?
But she didn’t have them. Or did she? Her mind raced. The days after Thomas’s death were still a blur, but she’d told Joe the truth. She’d given most of her husband’s personal things to her mother-in-law in an attempt to get rid of the memories. And while the paintings Joe had shown her seemed vaguely familiar, she wasn’t sure what she might have done with them. Could they really be there?
She eyed the gun that still pointed at her as the attacker continued searching. She needed to get someone’s attention. The balcony door to her bedroom was open. She could scream. Mrs. Lamberti from downstairs wouldn’t hear her—the woman was almost deaf—but someone else might catch her cry for help.
She sta
rted toward the door, but the man shifted at the movement and aimed his gun at her heart. “I want you to drop the knife and don’t even think about making a sound.”
She hesitated as her options vanished, then let the knife fall against the wood flooring.
Show me what to do, God. Please…
“Here’s the deal. If you’re lying to me, they will come after you. And in the meantime, I was told you might need some motivation.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and dropped it on the bed beside him. “I understand that you and your sister are close.”
She picked up the envelope and pulled out a handful of black-and-white surveillance photos of her sister. She stared at the shots of Shelby getting into her car at work, pumping gas at the local station, walking her Maltese poodle after school…
No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.
The room began to spin. She couldn’t breathe. “You can’t do this.”
“Except I can.” His cocky smile sent a chill down her spine. “And if you really don’t have the paintings, you’ve got seventy-two hours to find them.”
THREE
Joe found Talia’s name and number on the entry phone next to the doorway of the apartment block. He hesitated, wondering if he should buzz her, then changed his mind as an older woman with an armful of groceries opened the locked lobby building door. He slipped in behind her, then ran up the stairs to the fifth floor.
He paused at an open door on the landing—Talia’s door—and his senses automatically shifted to high alert. He’d seen Talia slip into the building ahead of him, which meant she was here. But something wasn’t right. He stepped inside. The living room had been trashed, leaving couch cushions, books and photos scattered across the floor.
“Talia?” He crossed the empty room, wishing that the Italian government allowed him to be armed. “Talia?”
A man bolted out of an adjoining room and shoved past Joe, knocking him into the wall. Five foot ten, dark hair with a streak of blond… It was the man from the Colosseum!
He pointed a Glock at Joe as he headed toward the door. “Don’t even try and follow me.”
Joe shouted again for Talia. He needed to go after the man, but if she was hurt… “Talia? Are you okay?”
She stepped into the doorway of the living room, her face ashen, and nodded.
“Then I’ll be back.”
Ignoring the man’s warning, Joe spun around and strode after him. They needed to get this guy and find out who he was and who he was working with.
God, I need some help here. Both for Talia’s sake and for my own.
He needed to know the truth. Joe needed closure—not only in the string of art thefts the FBI was investigating, but also in his personal life.
Shoving back the distracting thoughts and forcing his mind to focus, he ran down the narrow hallway to the stairwell. The sound of the other man’s footsteps echoed as Joe flew down the flight of stairs, trying to bridge the gap between them. The door to the front lobby slammed open against the wall below him, then shut.
And he still had two more floors to go.
His heart was racing by the time he made it to street level and stepped outside the structure into the afternoon sunshine. He searched the movement of pedestrians and traffic. The air smelled like fresh bread and chocolate. A car honked. A moped whizzed by as he hurried to the corner, debating which way to go. The intruder had to be here somewhere, but there was no sign of him. And the problem was, he could be anywhere. Joe glanced to his right past the busy intersection lined with stores and restaurants and the occasional bakery. Another two blocks to his left was the subway. Tracking him at this point was going to be impossible.
Irritated, he headed back to the apartment building. He needed to make sure Talia was really okay. A minute later he pressed the number of her apartment, waited for her to buzz him back into the building and headed up again to the fifth floor. His mind worked to sort through the few bits of information he had. Reopening the case had triggered someone to go after the paintings. But who? It had to be someone who believed that at some point Thomas had possession of them. Which led him back to his original theory. Whoever was after the paintings had most likely been there the night Thomas had been murdered.
When Talia opened the apartment door for him, she was on her cell phone. She signaled for him to wait a moment, then turned away, but not before he caught the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Shelby, as soon as you get this message, call me.” She dropped her phone onto the kitchen counter, then caught his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey…it’s okay. He’s gone.” He couldn’t blame her for being terrified. It was one thing to have someone snatch your bag in public, but having someone invade the privacy of your home with a weapon was going to take a lot longer to forget. “I’m going to use some of my connections with the Italian police and find a way to track this guy down. We’ve got a good description—”
“No.” She was crying harder now. “It’s not okay. He threatened my sister. He’s got surveillance photos of her at her house, and at her job…”
“Listen, I know this is hard, but I need you to tell me exactly what happened,” he said. “And we will figure this out. I promise.”
She grabbed a tissue off the counter. “I can’t get a hold of my sister. If anything happens to Shelby because of this I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Show me the photos.”
He followed her into the bedroom, where she sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up one of the pictures. “There are ones of Shelby outside the school where she works in Dallas, outside her house…”
Joe flipped through the photos, understanding her concern. Someone had killed her husband, and now they’d shown her that they could get to both Talia and her sister.
Joe pulled out his own phone. They needed to find a way to put an end to this. “If you’ll give me her address, I’ll have someone sent to her place right now. And if she’s not there, I’ll make sure they track her down and ensure she’s okay.”
She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen off her desk and started writing down the address. “The man gave me seventy-two hours to come up with the paintings.”
“And if you can’t?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but they’re clearly not playing games.” She glanced back at the photos. “I also called Thomas’s mother. I described the paintings and she thinks she remembers seeing them. If she does still have them, the artwork is probably somewhere in my in-laws’ apartment.”
He started to touch her arm, then pulled back at the intimate gesture, wishing she didn’t look so vulnerable. But he knew what it was like to have the life of a sibling threatened. Knew what it was like to lose a brother. And personal or not, he was going to make certain neither she nor her sister were hurt.
“We’re going to find those paintings, and ensure nothing happens to either one of you in the meantime.”
She blew her nose again. “You can’t guarantee that.”
“Maybe not.” He hated the fact that she was right. “But I can promise that I’ll do everything in my power to stop whoever’s behind this.”
*
While Joe started making calls on his cell phone, Talia hurried to shut and lock both the balcony and the front door. Not that closing up the apartment made her feel safe. A man had already found a way to break in to her house. Which meant she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel safe here again. Not only was her life being threatened, but now her sister was also potentially in danger. And all because of some missing paintings She glanced at the clock, then redialed Shelby’s number. Texas was seven hours behind Rome, so there was a good possibility she had her phone off while she was teaching, assuming Shelby was okay. She hoped that Joe would be able to keep his promise, and that everything would be fine. But she knew firsthand that sometimes things didn’t turn out the way you wanted them to.
Joe talked on his phone while pacing in her living room. There was so
mething surprisingly calming about his presence. But the reality was that he was a complete stranger, and the captain’s call had only managed to erase some of her doubts concerning the FBI agent. And yet somehow Joe Bryant was still managing to take the edge off her panic.
She closed her eyes, unable to get rid of the constant flood of memories. Not long after Thomas’s death, the chief had given her a box of his personal things. At the time, she’d felt too betrayed to do anything more than glance through the belongings before she got rid of most of what was inside. Thankfully, a friend of hers had advised her not throw away everything that reminded her of him, just because of her strong feelings of betrayal. She’d gone with the advice and had kept a few things, which she’d transferred to a smaller container then mailed the rest in a box to her mother-in-law in Venice.
And then she’d done her best to forget about it. Until now.
She glanced around the small apartment. There was really only one place it could be. She found the small, nondescript box under her bed behind a suitcase.
She lifted off the lid and felt a rush of emotion sweep through her. On the top was their wedding invitation, a black card with white-and-teal print. Beneath that were photos from their honeymoon to Ireland, the watch she’d given him for their first anniversary and their wedding rings. And along with these symbols were everything she’d thought they’d promised each other.
For better, for worse.
For richer, for poorer.
To love and to cherish.
Till death do us part.
She’d worked to put her past behind her, but now everything she’d tried to forget had risen to the surface, making her wonder if she was ever going to be truly free. She dug through the rest of the box until she touched the thin sheet of tissue paper in the very bottom. There were no postcards. No paintings.