“We’re fine,” he managed. “Just some old business to sort out.”
Her gaze on him flickered, something of hurt in her eyes. Because, yeah, they both knew he was lying.
Damien stood smoothly, dropping enough euros on the table to cover the tab and a generous tip. “Think about what I showed you tonight.” He nodded once to Francesca. “Signorina,your hospitality has been exceptional. Alfonzo is fortunate to have found such a sanctuary.”
So much for sanctuary.Alan looked down at his untouched pasta, cooling now in its ceramic bowl.
He’d liked this life.
But the people who’d killed Timea and his child were still walking free.
“I need some air.”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping against worn wooden floors. Francesca started to follow, but he held up a hand. “Just give me a minute.”
Thecasetta’s small terrace overlooked the Mediterranean, where the last rays of sunlight painted the water in shades of gold and crimson. Fishing boats dotted the horizon—small, peaceful—people going about their ancient business of feeding their families.
A normal life. The kind he’d been pretending he could have.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown number
When you’re ready to learn the truth about Senator White, about York, about what really happened that day, call me. The choice is yours.
Alan turned off the phone. Then he looked out over the water again, where the sun was sinking toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and red.
Beautiful. Peaceful. A perfect ending to what should have been a perfect day.
Behind him, the sounds of thecasettacontinued—families sharing meals, friends catching up over wine, Francesca’s mother calling out orders from the kitchen in rapid-fire Sicilian. Life going on, just as it should.
Just as it would continue to go on after he left.
Because hewasgoing to leave. The knowledge settled in his chest like a stone. Damien’s visit had been a door opening, and Alan had never been good at not walking through.
Not when it might lead to answers.
Not when it might lead to justice.
Not when it might lead to the people who’d killed Timea and destroyed everything good he’d ever tried to build.
The sun slipped below the horizon, and Sicily’s warm evening air wrapped around him like a farewell embrace.
Alan Martin was back.
SEVEN
Clearly, she’d left reality behind somewhere in the Phuket airport. Because Chloe had walked into a fairytale.
The glass elevator whisked them up through the rainforest canopy toward Keemala resort’s reception area. Carved teakwood pillars soared toward a ceiling painted with intricate Thai motifs. Through magnificent windows, the Andaman Sea stretched to the horizon, while traditional longtail boats dotted Kamala Beach far below.
Focus. She accepted a champagne flute filled with sparkling coconut water from the smiling reception manager. She was on her honeymoon.
She most certainly should not think about Skeet, or how he’d smelled like a man on vacation when he helped her out of the taxi.
This was just a cover.
“Welcome to Keemala, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.” The manager was elegant in her coral silk dress and traditional Thai jewelry, silver bracelets chiming as she gestured toward the lobby’s windows. “How may we assist you today?”