Hopefully Charles wouldn’t ask—
“What bar?”
Damn it.
Nico shut her eyes. “Drink and Dive.”
“What?!” Charles glared at her. “You promised you would never again set foot in that dump. There are plenty of other places to get a drink. And definitely better places to have a decent cocktail than that rathole.” Charles glanced at Templeton. “No offense, Temple.” He turned back to Nico. “Did anyone recognize you?”
Nico shook her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t recognize anyone there.”
Not entirely true.
“Everyone behind the bar was new,” Nico added. “The bouncers too.”
That was true.
Charles sighed. “Like I said, some kind of perverted psychology.”
They both remained silent until Charles finally spoke.
“You really look like your mom,” he said, glancing at the photo. He picked up the one alongside it. “I bet you look like Grandpapa too.”
Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t.
Nico worried she was forgetting what her grandfather looked like. That was why every day, she did a literal sketch of him, putting pencil to paper. She was convinced that this imprinted the image of her grandfather in her brain more firmly than had she just done a mental one. Charles had actually told her there was scientific research to confirm that view. He’d read it somewhere. He just couldn’t remember where.
Charles sighed as he placed the frame back on the bedside table. “I could tell you weren’t having a good time last night. You didn’t dance once. Do you think maybe today had something to do with why you went to Drink and Dive? Maybe nerves?”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe that letter that’s still sitting on the credenza? The one you have yet to open? The one postmarked from Italy?”
Nico swallowed. Why of all places did it have to come from Italy? That meant that asshole was in Italy. Inside that envelope was her past.She felt as though she’d be opening Pandora’s box minus the hope once she unlocked it.
The Formula 1 schedule had been put out months ago. Two of the races took place in Italy.
A thought suddenly occurred to Nico, and she slivered her eyes, peering at Charles. “How do you know the letter came from Italy?”
Charles tossed his head, his tone huffy. “Just because I read the envelope doesn’t mean I read the letter … or tried to.”
Nico smirked. “No success?”
“No,” Charles said grumpily. “That envelope is too thick. I couldn’t see anything through it. Why doesn’t the motherfucker just email or text? Who writes letters anymore?”
“That would leave a digital trail. Remember, Mickey had to skip the country to escape the authorities.”
“Oh, right. He is a criminal. There is that.”
“Besides, he doesn’t have my email address or phone number.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. And you still have that post office box.”
Nico nodded.
“Wait a minute,” Charles said. “Doesn’t physical mail leave a trail too? I mean, there’s the handwriting and DNA. There’re experts who can figure out all sorts of stuff. Look at Gil Grissom and Abby Sciuto.”
“Watching reruns ofCSIandNCISagain? You do know they’re fictional characters. And there are things like gloves. Not to mention he probably typed the letter. Although he’s developed so many different writing styles, even if he did write it, I don’t know if there’s anyone who could track it back to him.”
