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“And they’re all so tall.” The woman looks toward the podium as the sheriff closes out the press conference. He and his entourage are indeed tall, each over six feet.
“You ever heard of Warren Harding?” the woman asks Poppy, as the crowd starts clearing out.
Poppy examines her. She has a long neck that gives her an aristocratic air.
“You mean like the former president?”
The woman nods, pleased. “The twenty-ninth president. Considered by most historians to be one of our worst presidents. He was an idiot and corrupt.”
Poppy shakes her head, not clear where this is going.
“But he won in a landslide. You know why?”
Poppy says, “I gotta get go—”
“He looked the part,” the woman says. “And he was tall.” The woman stands erect as she says this. “Do you know that about fifteen percent of men are six feet tall, less than five percent are six-two or taller?”
Poppy considers walking away, but is genuinely curious.
“But in Fortune Five Hundred companies,” the woman continues, “nearly sixty percent of CEOs are six feet or taller and thirty-three percent are six-two or taller.”
“And this matters because…?”
The woman eyes the sheriff and his tall inner circle. “Often, those who seem like we should trust them, seem like they are leaders we should follow, are anything but.” The woman reaches into her handbag and retrieves something, which she hands to Poppy.
It’s a business card. It has the blue FBI seal on it, says: SPECIAL AGENT JANE FINCHER. The agent the sheriff warned Poppy about.
“It also means that those who aren’t male who aren’t exactly six feet tall”—she eyes Poppy up and down—“may benefit from working together.”
Before leaving the room, the agent says, “They probably told you not to talk to me. But you should.”
9
MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY
By late afternoon, Ryan and his classmates stand in a large field. Two giant balloons lie side by side, being inflated like those bouncy rides at kids’ parties. The balloon company’s safety instructor has twice asked Ryan to put away his phone.
Following his dad’s call, he’s been down the rabbit hole of stories about Alison’s car being found at the bottom of Suncatcher Lake. His thoughts are spinning, anxiety heightened because with every new clue in Alison’s disappearance attention returns to the case. To Ryan. The focus on Ryan had died down briefly last year after police announced they’d found Alison’s DNA at the Missouri River Killer’s campsite where that fiend had been arrested. That didn’t get there on its own. But the two bodies in the car don’t fit the MRK narrative. Ryan’s gut curls thinking of that familiar tone in his father’s voice on their call. The circle-the-wagons protective instinct. His dad said that Ryan’s lawyer advised that they remain calm, that they shouldn’t issue a statement because it would only draw attention, a bucket of chum for social-media sharks. Beyond that, Marty said he’d keep tabs on the situation, call if there was anything they needed to do. But how can Ryan just live his life? How can he do nothing knowing the toll this will take on his parents? Ryan takes one last surreptitious look at his phone before they board the balloon baskets. The internet is already alight with theories. Maybe that explains the note: I know who you are. One of those online sleuths discovered Ryan’s real identity and tracked him to Italy. He should’ve skipped this tourist crap and gone to the Palazzo for the meet. He curses himself for being a coward.
The balloon employee divides them into two groups: Ryan, Eddie, Nora, and the frat boys in one; 3D and Clayton and Marci in the other. The burner in the basket is hot and loud, the pilot adjusting the flame. Ryan tries to force himself to be present for the sake of the others, for Nora.
As they are about to float off, Ryan notices a small Fiat pull up to the site. The same miniature car from the winery. That’s weird. Ryan watches as the driver gets out, looks up at the balloons.
Ryan keeps his eye on the man. More weirdness: The guy’s wearing gloves even though it’s still scorching outside.
As the balloon drifts closer to the man, Ryan sees his face clearly, and the breath is stripped from his lungs.
It’s him.
Ryan feels his knees give, he clutches the side.
“Are you okay?” Nora asks.
The pilot of the balloon, an Australian man with sun-beaten skin, says, “He’ll get his sea legs soon, right, boyo?”
Ryan doesn’t answer but holds himself up against the edge of the basket, scrutinizes the man below who is now walking back to his car. The sun is starting to come down, casting a yellow glow over the man. It’s hard to tell in the light, but the man appears to be staring right at him. Then the strangest thing: The man removes a glove and waves up at Ryan.
He’s missing his pinky finger.