Emilia is waiting for me in her office when I arrive. She startles when I enter and looks paler than usual, but then she smiles. Although I feel like she’s forcing it.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I had to go home, shower, and change my clothes before coming here. I don’t want her to know the details of the night. “Things took longer than I expected.”
“Do you have them?”
I nod once.
“Alessandro too?”
“Not yet, but I will. Ready?”
She’s still sitting there and has her arm over whatever is on her desk. I see a corner of something familiar, but before I can think about it, she clears he throat. I return my gaze to hers.
“I just need a minute. I need to pack up a few things. You can have a drink if you want. I’ll meet you at the bar?”
She’s behaving strangely, and I notice the two tumblers, one empty and one with what I assume is whiskey, on the table in the sitting area. Her lipstick is along the edge of the still full glass. She follows my gaze.
“Father of the bride-to-be needed a drink when he saw the bill.” She attempts a chuckle, but it’s a poor try.
I study her. “Everything okay?”
“Everything like what?”
“You’re acting strange.”
She glances down, busies herself with something on her desk. “Just a long night.”
“We’ll have a drink when we get home. What do you need?” I step toward her.
“Nothing. I’m ready.” She quickly slides the large book into her tote and stands.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, just some work.”
I watch her face. I know she’s lying, but I can’t figure out why or what she’s hiding. There’s nothing to hide at this point, is there?
“Okay. Let’s go.” I gesture to the door, she just barely meets my eyes as she goes through it and out into the lobby. She and the man I stationed in the lobby exchange a strange look. When I go to him, he can’t quite meet my eyes. “Everything all right here? Any trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re new with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dave Russo, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
I watch him a moment longer and see sweat beading on his forehead. I pat his back a little harder than I need to. “Good to have you, Dave.”
When I turn to Emilia, she’s watching us. I can’t help but wonder if they’re sharing some secret. But that makes no sense.
With a hand at her lower back, I lead her out to the waiting car, noting how she’s clutching the tote.
“Do you mind if I go to my apartment tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“You can’t keep me locked up in your house.”
“I promised you my protection. I don’t break my promises.” I open the door, and she slides in. I take the tote from her. She tries to grab it back, and as soon as she does, I pull it just out of reach.
“Heavy.”
“I…I wanted to take some of my personal things home.”
I hand it to Vincent, my eyes narrow as I study her, watch how she flushes a little when she lies. “Put this in the trunk.” He nods and puts it away. A few minutes later, we’re on our way back to my house. “Why are you anxious?”
“I’m not.”
“What’s in the bag?”
She looks me straight in the eye. “Nothing. Just work.” She pauses, seems to change her mind. “And I guess I am a little anxious with Alessandro out there, knowing where I am and all.”
“You don’t have to worry about him. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
We drive in silence the rest of the way home. Once there, I watch her as I take her bag out of the trunk, carry it in for her.
“Do you want a drink before heading up to bed?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I have an early day tomorrow.”
“All right. Good night, then.”
She eyes the tote. “Can I have my bag?”
I shake my head. “You’d better get some sleep. You have an early day tomorrow,” I remind her.
She swallows. She knows I know she’s lying. “Are you coming upstairs?”
“I have a few calls to make. I’ll be up soon.”
Conversation is stilted, but she nods and turns to go. “Emilia,” I call out once she’s on the first-floor landing.
She stops and turns.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I meet Vincent in the kitchen.
“Russo acted strange, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. I’ll make a point to drop by his place tomorrow. Find out what’s going on.”
“Good idea.”
“What do you want to do with the women?”
I open the fridge and grab a beer for myself and one for him. I drink a third of it before answering. “I’m hoping this will be resolved before the seventy-two hours are up. Right now, I want to see what’s in that bag.”
I carry the tote into my study and unzip it. Inside I find some folders and among them, a book, the corner of which looked familiar. I lift it out and set it on my desk. I don’t want to touch it, but I force myself to, force myself to open the carved wood cover. My mother had had this book specially made when I was born. It was a photo album. Mine. And, as I numbly turn the pages, I see the outline where each of the photos once stood. Each one she painstakingly placed. I wonder if he destroyed them.