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I barely left Vincenzo’s bed. He left it to go to work, dressed in a dark suit with his beard freshly trimmed and his hair still a little damp from the shower. Both times he came home before dawn, climbed into bed behind me, put his hand on my hip and I woke up with his mouth already on the back of my neck.

Yesterday, we had dinner on the terrace. He sat on the island to watch me cook, set the table on the terrace and washed up after dinner. He wanted to know more about my family so I told him about the times we spent visiting my grandparents in Michigan. He didn’t share anything about his past but the questions he asked make me hopeful that one day, he’ll share a little more of his life with me.

He left earlier for a daytime meeting. Kissed me at the door, said he’d be back before three. I waved him off. Walked back into the kitchen. Checked my phone.

Marisol had texted twice while we were in bed last night, and I had not seen either message.

The first text, time-stamped eleven forty-two: they came in again, R. Two of them. Different ones this time. Asking after Elsie.

The second, nineteen minutes later: please can we meet, I need to tell you in person. I can’t be on my phone. Tomorrow 11, usual place.

I read them twice.

Put the phone down on the marble island. Leaned on the island with my palms flat against the cool stone. Tried to calm myself down.

Marisol has texted me fifteen times in the last two years. Three of those times she asked to meet in person. Two of them were nothing. The third was the week we figured out Zidaru had put a man on the apartment across from the one Elsie and I used to share.

I text her back: coming.

I should call Vincenzo, tell him where I’m going. I should tell him about Elsie.

I nearly told him yesterday, when he brought me coffee in bed and brushed the back of his fingers over my cheek.

He’s working, it’s not the right time. I’ll be back by twelve-thirty, well before he returns.

I’ll tell him tonight.

I grab the small jute shopping bag I keep for farmers’-market trips, tuck a plain envelope of cash into the bottom.

I pull a loose gray sweater on over my leggings. Twist my hair back into a low knot. Order an Uber from the back garden, not the drive, so the car and the camera at the main gate don’t log a pickup from the house.

The Uber meets me a block from the back wall, by the little gate the gardeners use. I slip through and pull it closed behind me. I’m grateful when the driver chats about his grandkids, because I can chat back and not think about all the scary possibilities Marisol might bring up.

As we approach the city, the smell of asphalt, exhaust fumes and the noise of traffic hit me and I realize I’ve become accustomed to the quiet of Vincenzo’s house and the extensive grounds surrounding it.

I’m meeting Marisol at a café in Silverlake. Three streets from the café where Elsie used to work before she ran. Marisol still works there.

Marisol is at a corner table in the back when I come in. Her hair is in a tired braid over one shoulder. Her eyes find mine the second the door chimes.

I slide into the chair opposite her.

After we’ve greeted each other, she glances over my shoulder, then back at me. Pulls her coffee cup toward herself with both hands.

“Rosalie. He has people in Arizona now.”

My hands go cold.

“How do you know?”

“The one who came in yesterday said we’ve narrowed it down to a small town. He didn’t know I was listening. He said Blossom Ford, Rosalie.”

My hands shake as I pick up my coffee cup. I put it back down.

“Did they say anything else?”

“I only know they have a lead and they are moving on it.”

I close my eyes for a second. Panicking isn’t going to help. I have to let Elsie know.