It’s an odd feeling when you feel like you know something no one else does.
And the thing I know is: Connor is trying to kill me.
I feel it in my bones. And it’s weird because it doesn’t frighten me like I thought it would. Not like all the harried thoughts of the last few days, the uncertainty, the not knowing.
Now that I know, I feel calm. I only need to decide what I’m going to do about it. How I’m going to go about proving it.
Because what evidence do I have?
None.
And I’m not naive enough to think I can just waltz into the inspector’s office (he has an office, right? a cubicle at least) and point some dramatic finger at Connor and he’ll be taken away in handcuffs.
I can’t expect Connor to confess. That’s not his way. Even when I confronted him about his crimes ten years ago, he never quite confessed to anything. It was all innuendo, and “If I did it, then what?” like he was O. J. Simpson.
“Plausible deniability,” he’d called it, and even if it wasn’t, it felt like it was.
I was naive then, but I’m older and wiser than that now. I know I’m not going to be able to simply sit him down in the library with all the other suspects and lay it out like I’m Hercule Poirot and get some snarling confession out of him.
That’s not going to happen.203
I’m going to have to find some other way to get the evidence.
Some other way to convince more than myself that I’m right.
And I need to do it before he stops fucking up and kills me for real.
Remember how I said that sometimes I can see things before they happen? Like this morning with the gun?
Well, right now my vision’s foggy, but I know, whatever happens, that it’s going to be dangerous.
Are you ready?
I am. But I’m also hungry, so we have lunch with the BookFace Ladies in the Piazza del Duomo at a series of bistro tables set up on one side of the plaza. A massive church looms above us, blocking out the sun, and there’s a breeze in the air, the scent of lemons and the sea.
I think, despite everything, that I might retire here.
If I live, if I survive this, this is as good a place as any.
Thirty-five isn’t too young to retire, right? Not if you’re exhausted? Not if you’re worn down by life and everything that’s happened to you in the last ten years.
No one would judge me.
I can become an expat who speaks bad Italian and buys my food at the local shops, putting my purchases into a basket I sling over my arm. I can get a bicycle and sturdy walking shoes to go up and down these streets and climb down to the Gulf of Salerno and swim my morning laps in the sea.
“You want to retire here, don’t you?” Oliver says, sitting next to me. I left the seat open for him, but I wasn’t sure if he was going to take the invitation.
“Why can you always read my mind?”
“I don’t know.” The skin on the bridge of his nose is peeling, and his freckles are popping. His face is open and kind, and if I’m not getting ahead of myself, I can see love in his eyes.
How could I have thought that he had anything to do with this?
That’s what Connor’s done with his too many suspects and his pitting us all against one another. Like I put in my outline, but with a twist. It’s not just the thought of murder that kills you. It’s the thought that someone you love might be the one to do it.
“I wish I could read your thoughts as clearly,” I say.
He leans back and crosses one leg over the other. “I was thinking that retirement doesn’t seem so bad, right now.”
My heart kicks into another gear. “Retirement with me?”
“Potentially.”
“Where would we go?”
“We could go anywhere.”
“Not Florida, though,” I say.
“Florida is bullshit.”
“Florida is bullshit.”
We grip hands across the table, and I know I should confide in Oliver, but I don’t. I don’t want Connor in this moment. He’s been in too many moments between us.204
Instead, I open my menu and say, “Do you think anything’s good here?”
He laughs and says that it all looks amazing, and we order some cacio e pepe, then make idle conversation while I watch the rest of our party.
Harper’s sitting with Emily, an uneasy détente. Guy and Sylvie are at a table with the bus driver. And then there are the BookFace Ladies, chattering and taking photographs on their phones. They’re subdued, though, tamped down. I wonder why until I hear Cathy tell Susan that she’s thinking of going home.
Shek, I realize. They’re mourning him.
I should do that, too, more than I have.
A newsletter devoted to him. Or a lecture series. I should read his books and promote them. Emily should do her thing on TikTok.
The man died, after all, because of me.
Wait, wait, wait, hold up. It’s not what you think.
I’m not the perpetrator. I’m just the catalyst. So that makes me responsible but not, you know, legally.
Which brings me to Connor, the person who is responsible.
He’s sitting with Isabella and Allison, surrounded by BookFace Ladies, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on at that table.205, 206, 207
Connor looks carefree, but Allison’s usual sunny demeanor has slipped. She’s biting her lower lip, concentrating on something, while Isabella tells a story, gesticulating with her hands for emphasis.208 Cathy watches them from the table next door, and I wonder once again how she got on this tour. Maybe that was part of Connor’s plan. To torture me first with Cathy before he finally did away with me. That might explain her disinterest in me and the shift in her focus to him. Because there’s one thing I know about Cathy—no one tells her what to do.
Our food comes, and the cacio e pepe is delectable, creamy, and spicy, with the pasta fresher than fresh. I don’t have much appetite, though, with everything going on. I try to make light conversation with Oliver, but it’s hard not to feel like there’s a target on my back.
That’s why I’m sitting on the edge of the group, my eyes on everyone.
No one’s sneaking up on me at this lunch, I’ll tell you.209
When the meal’s over, I pose for a group photo with the BookFace Ladies in front of the church or cathedral or whatever it is. Then Sylvie leads us to the Villa Rufolo, which is, according to Sylvie and Google, “one of the largest and wealthiest on the Amalfi Coast. Built by the influential Rufolo family in the thirteenth century, it’s been the host to Renaissance poets and Neapolitan royalty. It was even the source of inspiration for the composer Wagner.”
It’s impressive. The architecture is Moorish in origin, with scalloped walls and gardens full of colorful flowers laid out in intricate designs. And soaring above it all is the Torre Maggiore, a medieval tower that has a magnificent 360-degree view of Ravello.
If Sylvie’s to be believed, anyway.
Which, I think we can all agree, she shouldn’t be.
“Some of you want to climb the tower, yes?” Sylvie asks, pointing up.
“No,” Connor says. “Some of us do not.”
“It is optional. Inside there is a museum and I have bought you all tickets. You can walk in the gardens for the next hour, but if you want the best view in Ravello, then up, up, up you go.”
I catch Harper’s eye, and she rolls her eyes at me. I shake my head in response. In a few days, we’ll be rid of Sylvie, and then all she’ll be is a footnote in our lives.210
If I last that long.
I’m repeating myself.
My mind is clouding with too many thoughts. That pure clarity I had an hour ago? It’s slipping away. I didn’t have anything more to drink with lunch, but all that wine in the morning, that day drinking—as fun as it was—it’s still there, swirling around.
I need to feel that clear certainty again so I can make a plan and execute it.
I look up at the tower.
There.
That’s where I need to go.
“I’m going to climb,” I say to Oliver.
“In this heat?”
“It’s not so bad.”
He fans himself with his napkin. “Speak for yourself.”
“I am.”
“Ha ha. But seriously, El. You want me to join you?”
“No, it’s … I need a moment to think.”
He frowns. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“I have my wits about me.”
“It’s not your wits I’m worried about.”
“I know.” I reach across the table and kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll be okay. No one’s going to hurt me here.”
“You know that’s not true.”
He’s right. Isolating myself from the group is a bad idea. But I want to do it anyway because I have that feeling like I’m sure you get sometimes, too. When something’s on the tip of your brain and it’s going to come to you at two in the morning. Or a dream that feels so real when it’s happening, but whose details you can’t remember an hour after you wake up.
That.
And I know from experience that if I don’t give it the time and space to emerge, then it will fade forever, leaving only the memory of having the answer but not the answer itself.211, 212
All this to say, I need to get up in that tower before I forget the solution to this case.
“I … How about this? Why don’t you keep an eye on Connor?”
His brows knit together. “Do you think…?”
“I … I don’t know, but yes, maybe.”
“I’ll kill him myself.”
“No one needs to be killed. I just need to think it through for a minute, and then we’ll go to Inspector Tucci, all right?”
“Okay.”
“Walk me to the entrance.”
We leave the table and walk through the piazza. The ground is uneven, made up of cobblestones, and the light feels magical, clear, and slightly breezy, with high paintbrush trees providing a canopy.
“Be careful,” he says.
“Just watch him,” I say. “It’ll be all right.”
He scans the crowd ahead of us and finds Connor entering the flower garden. He’s alone, and I wonder for a moment where Isabella is. Maybe she’s finally wised up and left him.
“I’ll be over there with him,” Oliver says. “But if you need anything, call.”
“You won’t be able to hear me.”
“I meant on the phone.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and waves it at me.
“I’m embarrassed to say this, but I don’t think I have your number.”
“What?”
“I, uh … I deleted it.”
“Why?”
Come on, Oliver, you’re smarter than that.
Or has he forgotten the drunk texts I sent him in the middle of the night begging him to forgive me?
“I needed to before I did anything more to embarrass myself.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Be that as it may…” He takes my phone and puts in my code. The screen unlocks. “Never changed your code?”
“Nope.”
“Trusting.”
“Yes.”
He smiles at me, then sends a quick text. “There you go, you texted me.”
“What did I say?”
“You’ll have to check to find out.” He kisses me quickly. “Be careful, El. I don’t want to lose you right after I found you again.”
Damn it.
You see? This is why I’m still in love with him.
Anyway.
I watch him walk toward Connor; then I check what he wrote.
I will never erase this number again.
I laugh out loud, catching the attention of a couple of the BookFace Ladies. I wave at them and hold my phone over my heart. He’s right, I hope.
But that’s the future. If I want to get there, I have to solve my past.
So up, up, up I go.
I take a ticket from Sylvie and walk into the bottom of the villa. It’s dark inside, the walls made of thick gray stone. There’s a museum, like she said, the artifacts and pottery set into illuminated niches and on plinths. It’s cooler in here, but airless, too.
But I’m not here for a history lesson.
I need to get up to somewhere I can think.
Which is weird when you think about it because I’m usually afraid of heights, as I’ve already established.
Maybe it’s the fear that clears my mind.
Or maybe it’s only a plot device.
Probably the second.
Read on to find out.
I wander through the rooms until I find it—the winding black metal staircase that will take me up to the roof. I don’t know how many stairs it is; I only know that my calves are protesting after one flight, and I pass two couples coming down, both red in the face and looking like regret.
I’m full of regret, too, but still I climb.
Finally, when my breath is heavy and thick in my throat, I get to the top.
It’s worth it.
I walk onto the square top of the turret. The 360-degree view of Ravello is as advertised. The vibrant green mountain behind it; the trees and colorful houses nestled into the cliffside; the winking blue Med. What wasn’t mentioned, though, is the hard plexiglass walls that surround the top of the stonework.
Did someone try to end their life up here? Did they succeed? Or is it preventative?
Whatever it is, it’s airless and hot, and the opposite of what I was expecting to feel when I got up here.
Because I don’t feel free; I feel claustrophobic.
I take a couple of long, slow breaths. I cannot have a panic attack up here. Not that I’ve ever had a panic attack, but this is what it feels like, right?
Like you can’t breathe?
Like your heart might explode?
Or is that a heart attack?
Don’t be an idiot, El. You’re not having a heart attack because you walked up a couple of stairs.
I move toward one of the walls. There are slits between the plastic, and some air comes through. I gulp at it, trying not to think about how ridiculous I look, like a fish out of a fishbowl, lapping at the drops of water so I can survive.
But it works. My heart calms, my pulse slows, my breathing returns to normal. And I can take in the beauty below. The gardens with their red, yellow, and purple flowers. The sea beyond it. The forest green trees.
No wonder Wagner was inspired.
I’d write a symphony about this place, too, if I could.213
I scan the garden to the left. Allison and Isabella are in the courtyard, alone, talking.
Wait, no. They’re having an argument, but in hushed, angry tones. Isabella is checking the surroundings, like she’s worried about being overheard.
But maybe it’s because I’m above them and sound travels upward like heat, that I do hear some of what they’re saying.
“I saw you,” Allison says.
Isabella shakes her head, but Allison is insistent.
She saw her where? What is she saying?
Where could Allison have seen Isabella that it would matter?
My mind tumbles over like the mechanism of a lock.
Click, click, click.
There’s only one place where it would matter if Allison saw Isabella.
The hallway outside my room that morning.
Allison’s room is on my floor. It stands to reason that the shots would’ve woken her. Of course they did. And maybe she didn’t hesitate to open her door. Maybe she got there fast enough to see a figure running toward the stairwell.
That was the door I heard opening.
Not the door to my room, but the one right next door.
Allison’s.
She heard the shot, rushed to the door, and saw Isabella.
Isabella, the woman who met Connor five days ago and decided to ditch her plans to follow him around Italy. Isabella, who could easily have slipped out of her and Connor’s room if Connor had taken a sleeping pill. Isabella, who was sitting at Guy’s table and could’ve drugged him in a moment.
And wait, wait, wait!
Isabella was the one who distributed the wine on the boat. She was near Shek right before he tumbled over, dead. She could’ve been wearing that device, and tapped him without anyone noticing.
But why?
Why would she want to kill Shek?214
Who is Isabella, anyway?
Who would want me and Connor dead? What connection do we have?
Then it hits me. Finally. Something that crossed my mind days ago on the boat to Capri that I dismissed.
I’ve been looking in the present when I should’ve been looking in the past.
The robberies. The Giuseppe family. He had a daughter, didn’t he? The capo—Antonio Giuseppe.
I take out my phone and google it. The signal is weak, and it takes a moment for the results to load. I click a recent article.
Oh! He died in jail. Survived by his five children—Gianni, Marco, Rosa, Marta, and Isabella.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
Really? The Canadian did it? 215
With Marta the publicist?
What. The. Fuck.
But wait, there’s more! There’s a family photo in one of the articles from some gathering fifteen years ago. The capo and his wife surrounded by their children. And I know this woman, despite the years. She has that same blowsy casualness about her, though the photo says her name is Sophia.
“Enjoying the view?” Sylvie says behind me.
Ah, shit.
I knew I shouldn’t have come up here.