Chiara tapped her lips for a few moments after I finished. “None of this really explains why the scars react to the triplets using their GUTs.”
“No, it does not.”
She chewed on the bottom of her pen for a moment. “I got nothing.”
“Me, neither.”
“Alright, so let’s get a game plan. I’m thinking the D’Angelo archives will be a good place to start. Let’s research anything to do with scars or a shadow world—”
My number is No. You need to let it go . . .
“So help me if this is another media person.” Chiara’s expression looked on the verge of explosion. “Hello—”
She listened for a moment before replying in Italian. “Yes, Inspector Paola, I took the suggestion seriously. I’m currently keeping a low profile at an undisclosed location. I don’t think the Tempeste family would track me to here.”
More listening. Chiara nodded her head a couple times.
“Thank you for the update. I’m sure I can lie low for a few more days.”
And then—
“No, Inspector Paola, I cannot get you a photo of Jack Knight-Snow. Goodbye.”
Chiara set down her phone, following it with a homicidal stare.
“Assistant, Jack.” She slapped the table as she rose. “Or so help me, we won’t need to involve theCosa Nostrafor there to be blood.”
The night air hung with heat and humidity.
Or, at least, I assumed it did, based on the sweat that had accumulated over and over on Chiara’s upper lip, right up until she stomped off to bed.
Twenty-six. That’s how many media calls she fielded throughout the day, each one more persistent that the last. Candy White had called three times alone. I planned to contact Tennyson in the morning and ask him to help me hire an assistant.
The call from Inspector Paola had concerned me. The investigation into the Tempeste family had hit a small snag and arrests would be delayed a couple days. If Chiara was concerned, she didn’t show it.
I was grateful she had agreed to come here, to my villa. I wasn’t much help in a physical confrontation, but if the mafia were to come after her, I could at least warn Chiara and call emergency personnel. It was nice to be in a position to help for a change.
As for me . . . contrary to what some may think, you can watch too much television. After suffering through another poorly argued debate on the virtues of parliamentary procedure, I gave up.
I walked away from the TV—leaving its babble running in the background—restlessly wandering the villa.
My villa.
Despite all the uncertainty in my life, it did feel nice to have a home again—even if I haunted it more than lived in it. A small recovery of who and what I had once been.
Someday perhaps it would be filled with family, friends and laughter. Branwell and Lucy would surely continue to visit me with their children. Though nothing could ever make up for what was lost . . .
Drawing room. Dining room. Kitchen. Breakfast room. Study. Library. Up the central staircase to the second floor. Down the hallway, past bedroom doors.
I stopped.
Ah. Chiara had found time to make a new ‘Ghosts Not Allowed’ sign, complete with hand drawnGhostbusterlogo.
How charming. She couldn’t trust me as a gentleman to keep out of her personal space. The thought rankled. It shouldn’t have. I should have considered it funny. And yet . . .
As if I would hurt her. As if I would do anything other than protect her with my very life.
Besides, how effective was this sign? I didn’t need a door to enter her bedroom.
