Well.
She hung up on me.
I sat back, gritting my teeth and giving myself a stern talking to. My frustration with Candy hadnothingto do with that teeny tiny part of me that missed Jack and wished that Ihadseen him more over the past year. Though the phone conversation left that teeny tiny part feeling scrubbed raw.
I had made the right decision last year in kicking Jack out. I had. Look at all that he had accomplished. How was it possible that Jack could turn himself into a self-made millionaire and internet sensation in just under a year? He was aghost, for heaven’s sake.
And if that teeny tiny part of me regretted not having Jack in my life, so be it. It wasn’t like Jack and I were good together. Fire and gasoline and all that. But sometimes . . . I missed that spark. The excitement of matching wits with him.
Unlike Jack, my year hadn’t been stellar. I still couldn’t convince a solid, stable guy that I was long-term girlfriend material. Case in point, potential boyfriend number four dumped me last week. His parting shot?You need some serious therapy. When you get your issues sorted out and are capable of an adult relationship, call me.
Tennyson kept insisting that I should seek professional help. I didn’t need a therapist. I didn’t want some shrink in my head, forcing me to change into someone I didn’t necessarily want to be.
I was fine. People liked me. Maybe not potential boyfriends, but . . . whatever. I simply needed to improve my mental filters, to think my words through more before I said them.
Jack, on the other hand, needed to hire a publicist. Or, at the very least, an administrative assistant.
I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with his fan-girl phone calls. I had too much going on.
Two weeks ago, Nonna had decided to take a month-long cruise along the European coast. Wanting my Nonna to have fun, I helped her pack and even took her shopping for some new clothes. Earlier in the day, I drove her to Pisa and settled her in her state cabin, chatting with the on-board doctor about her high blood pressure and fickle knee. Between me and the cruise staff, Nonna would have an amazing trip.
But I was now behind on work. I shook my head, focusing on the task at hand.
I scanned the block the dark night punctuated by the occasional yellow glow of a street lamp. Buildings lined the road, each blending into the next, all shades of sunset . . . cream, orange, yellow, red. Shops clustered at street level and floor after floor of apartments stretched above, cheery with their green shutters. Lightning flashed in the distance, causing me to flinch.
A few people meandered down the sidewalk. It was late, but notthatlate. Not so late that my presence would be conspicuous.
An owl hooted a warning as I turned off the car and threw on the parking brake. Thehoo-hoowas an omen of secrets reborn and old pain unearthed.
Excellent.
Enzio had passed tonight’s surveillance job on to me, and the owl’s omen meant that I would find something.
The facts of this case were fairly straightforward. Enzio’s client suspected his wife was having an extramarital affair. Her behavior had been erratic over the past several months—late nights, whispered phone calls, withdrawals of money for no apparent reason . . . the whole typical story. The husband had signed waiver forms, granting access to the wife’s car and purse. Enzio had thoroughly bugged both with listening devices and GPS trackers. Tonight, the wife was supposed to be visiting her sister. But the GPS told a different story.
I had followed the wife here, just north of the Florencecentro,the historic, medieval downtown. The blinking red dot positioned her half a city block from where I was parked. My goal tonight was to get close enough to record any conversation, hopefully obtaining definitive proof of the wife’s nocturnal activities.
Pulling my laptop from the back seat, I booted up my sound monitoring programs. I tapped my ear piece and double-checked that the wireless connection was secure. A glance at my phone showed that the GPS still had my target pinned. I set the laptop on the floor, carefully concealed but still running.
Making sure my long hair hid my ear piece, I stepped from the car, locking it behind me. The wireless connection would continue to record to the laptop, but I needed to bridge the gap. The wife was too far away for me to monitor her from the car, so I had to move myself closer.
I knew I was taking a risk being downtown alone, at night, on a dark street. But Florence wasn’t Naples. It was generally safe for all but the most foolish. I looked up and down the empty street, sternly telling myself to ignore a ping of unease. Usually Marco or another of Enzio’s people accompanied me.
Well . . . sometimes they did.
Like . . . once or twice.
Okay, so I probably needed to be better about having backup. Someone to call thepoliziaif things went south. Enzio would give me an earful if he found out, going on and on about my ‘unhealthy obsession with taking risks to prove myself.’
Enzio said I had little dog syndrome. I had to bark and yap ferociously to convince others to take me seriously.
That Enzio. Always poking fun of my height.
The real answer was simple. I hated sharing. Consider it the by-product of being the youngest of four children. I disliked having to share things like chocolate and toys and . . . limelight.
So I was a little competitive. What was wrong with that?
I pulled my purse onto my shoulder and walked down the sidewalk, my stride confident and unhurried. Static crackled in my ear piece, snippets of sound coming in as I drew closer to an intersection. I rounded the corner and all the noise solidified.
