Again.
For the twenty-sixth time.
“Born into the English aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution, John Knight-Snow, Lord Knight . . .”
Gritting my teeth, I told myself to ignore Siri’s monotone digital voice. It didn’t matter that Jack was supposed to be reading through an archive on esoteric texts about the afterlife instead of obsessing over his own history. It didn’t matter that Iwasreading through another article about the occult and ghosts and getting nowhere. It didn’t matter that Jack and I weresupposedto be working together but clearly weren’t.
Jack is a big boy. He can make his own decisions.
I repeated this over and over to myself with only moderate success. Siri continued to float down the hall.
I contemplated moving myself downstairs to Nonna’s apartment for the day. She would be glad of my company. She had just turned eighty this past year and I worried about her.
I lifted my head, staring out the open window—green shutters pushed open wide, the six-foot-tall panes bouncing light through the room. My home office faced the quiet courtyard behind our palazzo, not the busy Florentine street in front. The sounds of muted traffic and the low rumble of tourists drifted in from a distance.
The call of a hawk cut through the background hum. Leaning forward, I caught the arching wings of the bird as it banked across tiled rooftops.
The hawk’s cries spoke of change.
Unbidden, Jack’s words from a couple weeks ago stabbed through me:You only step out with men who are emotionally immature and are unlikely to want a more permanent relationship.
That wasn’t true. I refused to believe it. Jack was just lashing out as he struggled to find a place for himself here in the twenty-first century. Adjusting to life as a ghost had to be difficult. And our inability to find answers obviously discouraged him.
But avoiding the research altogether wasn’t helping either.
Shaking my head, I turned back to my article on the occult, valiantly attempting to ignore the digital voice droning on—
“With the end of the Napoleonic Wars making travel safe again, Lord Knight arrived in Florence in 1816. He rapidly discovered a series of Etruscan tombs dedicated to the goddess Hinthial and the oracle, Tages . . .”
Even without all the repetition, I knew the words of Jack’s biography by heart.
I had written them, after all.
Tennyson, the youngest of my older triplet brothers, often accused me of being a walking Wikipedia page.
Dante, my oldest triplet brother, regularly called me aficcanaso—a pokes-nose. Someone who sticks their nose where it doesn’t belong.
Branwell, the blunt middle triplet, labeled me a buttinsky.
Personally, I preferred the termintrepid investigator. It was much perkier and conjured up images of Nancy Drew or Scooby-Doo andthose meddling kids.
No matter the label, I clearly liked being part of things. Why else would I have volunteered to help Jack get his body back?
Aside from having a masochistic streak a mile wide?
Though, had I known beforehand the emotional toll helping Jack would extract, I would have been tempted to keep my mouth shut. I wanted to help Jack—I really, truly did—but it was exhausting. All my goodwill and initial excitement had morphed into frustration as Jack became more and more bratty and morose, obsessing on every little thing.
Like, for example, his Wikipedia page.
I texted Enzio Patrucchi—friend, father-figure, private investigator and mentor in all things covert.
Got anything for me? I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.
Three dots and then Enzio’s reply:
That Jack guy again?
Yep. I have about hit my limit. Who knew I had one?
