Page 137 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Wait, what?” Bianca said.

“Details, please,” Harold said. “I mean, if you’re really confessing.”

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t do anything wrong, other than marry the wrong man.”

Bianca asked, “Your family back home doesn’t even know?”

Moira gestured behind her with her hand. “Mum and Dad both died a few years back. Had to start over here.”

Harold set his hands on his head. “Is Moira even your name?”

She shook her head.

“Well, don’t tell us,” Bianca said. “Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

“I’m not. I can’t. Last thing I want is all of you googling me.”

“It’s a thing?” Harold asked. “You were in the papers?”

Her lack of response indicated a resounding yes.

Harold couldn’t deny that her sexiness factor had shot up by millions. His friends had no idea who he was bringing into their gaming club.

The silence forced Moira to keep going. “He was messing around with some baddies. I suppose he was a baddie himself.”

“I like that word—baddie,” Harold said.

George shushed him. “Let her speak.”

Moira shook her head. “I can’t believe I’ve said it out loud. I have to admit, it feels so . . . liberating.” She continued, “I was a harmless librarian who fell in love with a—”

“A librarian?” Sandy said. “That explains it.”

Moira nodded. “Anyway, I saw something I shouldn’t have—something his business partner had done—and told him we had to call the police. He lost it and threatened to kill me if I opened my mouth. Apparently he’d been part of it, a criminal enterprise of sorts. I had no idea. And I didn’t heed his warning. Snuck out a window, climbed down a fire escape, and ran to the police station. Left my whole life behind. I’ve been hiding ever since.” She shrugged. “Other than when I attended the trial. He and a few other men were sentenced to twenty-plus years. And I’m in Bologna unless they find me. Then I’ll be thrown into a Grisham novel, running for my life.”

“That’s right,” Sandy said. “One of Grisham’s books was set here; the protagonist was hiding.”

Moira gave a nod.

“You’re a badass,” Harold declared.

Sandy was shaking her head. “And there I was, calling you a mouse, you lion you.”

Moira shrugged. “Can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Oh, God,” Sandy said. “Please don’t end this spectacular revelation with a cliché.”

“Sorry. But seriously, please, let’s not talk about this ever again. If my protection officer even got suspicious, she’d send me packing. I’d lose my job, the bookstore. You guys.”

Harold raised his wine to toast Moira. “Your secret is safe here.”

Everyone agreed and clinked glasses.

As Harold brought the glass to his lips, he saw Alice enter the room. Leading the way, guiding her diamond-studded hand, was Renzo, the thief of strawberry lovers.

Chapter 32

The Archnemesis