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Agent Fincher snaps her fingers. “Everyone except a little boy. He’s a Holy Fool—someone who’s free to state the truth.”
“What’s this have to do with anything?”
“Oh… I don’t know. After you punched your commanding officer in the nose, I was hoping you were one.”
“One what?” Poppy asks.
“A Holy Fool.”
Poppy shakes her head. This lady’s been looking into Poppy’s background. Following her. What’s her deal?
“In real life, our Holy Fools are whistleblowers. People willing to sacrifice loyalty to their job or institution to expose the truth.”
“No offense, lady, but what in the hell are you—”
“The men in the car,” the agent interrupts, abruptly changing the subject. “Let me guess, one of them was dressed to the nines. A high-quality, tailored suit. Am I right?”
She is, but Poppy doesn’t show it.
“A three-piece suit. Like an old-time banker.”
Poppy holds her gaze, confirming without saying anything.
“They don’t make suits like that off the rack. Probably a custom tailor… A business that may keep records of its customers.”
Poppy feels a jolt of exhilaration. She wonders if the KBI has thought of this—tracking the man from his clothing. They have to have considered it. She’ll call Chantelle Luna in the morning to check. Now a question: How does Agent Fincher know this? Is there a leak? Does she already know who was in that car?
“Who are they?” Poppy asks, taking the chance.
“It’s a shame we’re not sharing intel.” The agent stands, dusts off her hands, heads to the door.
“Seriously, if you know who they are…,” Poppy calls after her.
The agent turns, stops at the door. “You’ll figure it out. Your bosses don’t think much of you, but you’ll surprise them. And, who knows? Maybe you’ll be a Holy Fool after all.”
The FBI agent then pushes outside and disappears.
20
MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY
Back at the B and B, the sun has disappeared and the stars twinkle in the inky summer sky. Ryan sits in an Adirondack chair overlooking the sprawling vineyard. He feels like he’s in a fever dream. From the heat, from the sudden reappearance of The Monster.
Nora arrives, carrying a small cooler. She pops open a Peroni and hands him the green bottle. She doesn’t remind him that Ryan promised to tell her what’s going on. She just sits quietly, drinking her beer, waiting.
After the long stretch of silence, he takes a swig and he tells her. About two high-school kids in love. About that night at Lovers’ Lane. About suspicions that have followed him like a stink. About the notes. About seeing The Monster.
It feels good, telling someone. It’s the first time. Because of the pain and guilt, but also the fear. He’s lost so much already. Friends. Basketball. His name, even. But he’s tired of being afraid. And telling Nora feels both safe and like something he can only describe as relief. Still, there’s terror bubbling inside him. Not about the others knowing who he really is, but in the revelation that The Monster is real, not an imaginary boogeyman conjured from the dark recesses of Ryan’s mind.
“Tell me you’re not going to meet him tomorrow,” Nora says after listening quietly.
Ryan shrugs, takes another sip of his beer.
“If he’s a killer…,” she says, clearly worried.
“It’s a public place. Lots of people will be in the town square in the morning.” He’s trying to convince himself more than Nora.
“You’ll miss the train.”