After a few minutes, she stepped back out into the sun, craving something different.
And then she saw it.
A tiny Italian boutique tucked between two stone buildings, its windows full of vibrant clothes. The colors caught her attention immediately—pinks, reds, cobalt blues, and sunny yellows. It was bold, unapologetic, and exactly what she’d been searching for.
Kathleen pushed open the door, a soft chime announcing her arrival. The woman behind the counter glanced up and smiled warmly, speaking in rapid Italian.
“Sorry,” Kathleen said with a small laugh. “I don’t speak?—”
The woman waved a hand, her smile widening. “No problem. Please, look around. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thank you. You have a beautiful shop. I love the colors.”
“Si,” the woman said softly. “It is nice to be surrounded by color.” Then she returned to the paperwork spread across the counter, leaving Kathleen to explore.
Kathleen prowled among the racks, her hand trailing over soft cotton blouses, silky dresses, and textured jackets. The clothes felt alive here—full of personality, full of joy. Within minutes, she’d gathered an armful of garments. The saleswoman came over silently, whisked them away, and hung them neatly in a changing room.
An hour slipped away in a blur of fabrics and mirrors, Kathleen twirling under soft lights, each outfit more delightful than the last. By the time she’d narrowed down her choices and paid in cash, her cheeks ached from smiling.
“Where might I find shoes?” she asked as the saleswoman folded her receipt.
“Shoes?” The woman’s eyes lit up. “Ah, my favorite!” She leaned forward and gave quick, clear directions. “Out the door, to the right, then take the little lane. At the top, turn left.”
Kathleen grinned. “Thank you again.”
“No, thank you.” The woman pushed the cash drawer shut with a large grin.
Bags in hand, she stepped back into the sun. The warmth on her skin felt like a soft caress as she followed the directions—turning right, strolling up the street until she reached what she would have called an alleyway at best.
Everything was so close here. The winding streets twisted and folded into each other, narrow lanes opened into tiny courtyards. As she started up the incline, the sun hit her square in the eyes, forcing her to squint, but she didn’t mind. The stone walls on either side were lined with doorways so small she’d have to duck to enter them, and she imagined what it might be like to live behind one of those aged, weathered doors.
Flower pots perched on some narrow sills, overflowing with bright geraniums and trailing ivy. The scent of blooms mingled with the faint tang of espresso drifting from somewhere nearby. It was absolutely lovely—charming and timeless, the kind of place she’d never forget.
A sound pulled her attention, and Kathleen glanced up. There was a man coming down the alley toward her. The sunlight slanted sharply into her eyes, making it hard to see his face. All she could make out was his silhouette: tall, lean, wearing a pale linen shirt and pants, the kind of effortlesselegance that screamed Italian. A hat shaded part of his face, and dark sunglasses hid the rest.
As he drew closer, he smiled.
Years of suspecting everyone and everything made her hesitate, but she forced herself to smile back.
“Buongiorno,” he offered smoothly, his Italian lilting and warm.
Kathleen opened her mouth to respond, but before the words left her lips, his hand shot out and ripped her purse off her shoulder.
The suddenness of it stunned her and old fears she thought she’d shed roared back to life. Her shopping bags slipped from her grasp as instinct took over—she clung to the purse with both hands.
“Let go!” he barked, shoving her hard against the stone wall.
“Stop! That’s mine?—”
“It’s not worth your life,” he hissed.
Startled and breathless, Kathleen let go. He snatched the purse and bolted down the alley without looking back. Her chest heaved, but no scream came. She couldn’t seem to drag in enough air. The sun, the shock, the memory of everything she’d survived—it all tangled together and froze her in place.
Finally, she forced herself to move, bending down to scoop up her shopping bags. At least he hadn’t taken her brand-new clothes. And the strap was ripped, so he wasn’t going to get much for the bag if he tried to sell it. Those were a couple of bright spots at least. She swallowed the burn rising in her throat. No crying. Not here. Not now. She needed a police station.
Kathleen walked into a squat stone building that smelled faintly of paper, sweat, and stale coffee. The officer behind the desk glanced up with a bored expression. “Come posso aiutarla?” he asked first in Italian, then immediately switched to English. “How can I help you?”
“I was mugged,” she said in a shaky voice.
