Of course she was alone!
Ohmygod.She had imagined him, that was all, but for a moment, a single moment, it had felt soreal.
Alex looked all around the cozy room again, but did not see anything other than the room’s overstuffed chairs and sofa, her backpack, shoes, and overnight bag. Her pulse was hardly subsiding.
You are a fool,she told herself, still wide-eyed and aching. Still afraid to move.
The hotel room was glaringly empty.
Then she caught a movement by the corner of her eye. But it was only the draperies shifting ever so slightly again. From the air vents.
Alex’s heart did not slow for a very long time. She sat and stared into the vacant room. She told herself that she was alone—that she had been alone all night. But now she kept wondering if she was being watched.
It was well past midnight when she slid back down into the bed. But not before rushing over to the overstuffed chair and pulling on her T-shirt and jeans. And once she was back in bed, she kept the lights on, the covers up to her neck, and her thighs glued together. She did not fall asleep until dawn.
Columbia University, New York City
“Are you still unpacking?”
Alex started. Actually, she was in the midst of packing, and the various jeans and T-shirts and summer suits that she was taking to Tripoli were spread all over her bed. An open duffel sat at the foot. She had not heard Beth enter her apartment. Now Alex straightened and turned to see Beth standing in the center of her studio, her hands deep in the pockets of her shorts. Alex hesitated.
She had not told Beth a thing. Not a single thing since she had returned last week from Boston. And in that entire time, Alex had done nothing but investigate Blackwell’s life. Unfortunately, she had turned up very little on him. Just a single paragraph in a short text on the United States war with Tripoli, which had begun in 1801.
“Alex? Why are you looking so guilty?” Beth approached and stared down at a pair of Levi’s and a white linen shirt. “You’ve been home a whole week and you still haven’t unpacked?”
“I’m packing.” Alex said reluctantly.
Beth was confused. “Where are you going?”
“To Tripoli.”
Beth laughed. “That’s funny. Now, where are you really going?”
Alex stared, then tossed a pair of silk trousers into the bag. She added a shiny patent leather belt. “I’m not joking.”
Beth slowly turned a ghastly shade of white. “Alex! You’re not serious? Are you insane? Haven’t you ever heard of Qaddafi? I didn’t know Americanscouldgo to Tripoli!”
Alex sat down beside the duffel bag. “I got a student visa.” It was a lie. She was not about to tell Beth that she had to stop in Paris to obtain a forged French passport in order to get into Libya—and that the document was costing her dearly.
“You are insane.” Now Beth was angry. “This has to be a joke. Isn’t it?” Beth pleaded.
“No. It’s not a joke. I have to go. I’ll be careful.”
“Do you know what could happen to a woman like you?” Beth cried.
Alex did know. She might be a romantic fool, but she was hardly stupid. “I’ll be very careful.”
“They kidnap beautiful women, Alex, and throw them into harems. It’s called white slavery!” Panic laced Beth’s voice. “You’ll never come home!”
Alex did not answer. She knew that she was crazy to go, but there was this voice inside of her head, insisting that she go. She knew, she just knew, she would find out more about Blackwell there, where he had been imprisoned and murdered.
Beth came forward to stand in front of Alex. “What is going on? What has gotten into you? Has something happened that I don’t know about?”
Alex had to have someone to confide in. “Beth, you know I stopped in Boston last week. I went to Blackwell House. It’s a museum. It was once the home of this powerful shipping family.”
Beth stared. “I do not understand.”
Alex wet her lips. When she spoke, she heard the excitement in her own tone. “The heir to Blackwell Shipping at the turn of the nineteenth century was Xavier Blackwell. I saw his portrait there. His bedroom.” She paused.And his ghost,she thought. “He was an incredible man.”
