But she was the one here, now. And when she noticed a very narrow alley to the left of the building, she decided to take a trip down there and see where it led.

The aisle was so narrow, she almost had to move sideways in order to make it comfortably through. She had to climb over a few garbage cans, heavy with the stench of spoiled and rotten food. But as she’d expected, there were windows on this side. She passed several of them for the first apartment on that side, all closed.

When she reached another set, though, she found herself staring in on someone’s kitchen. At a man, standing at the counter, slathering butter on a roll with a kitchen knife.

He started to turn, and she gasped and ducked down—just in time. She watched him, at the sink, cleaning his knife, and thought back to that instance on the balcony stairs. The man had been rather thick, but not fat. Built, solid and stout. He’d had a layer of brown stubble on his jaw and oddly fat lips like two sausages . . . Botox gone wrong.

Yes. This was Leo Linville. The man who helped her that night.

The man who’d stolen her necklace.

She looked around. Her situation had really not improved. What was she hoping to do? Break into his kitchen window and say, Aha! I got you! I caught you red-handed.

She hadn’t caught anything. He didn’t have the jewels on his person, as far as she could see. Didn’t exactly strike her as the type to wear them around. Maybe, he’d even sold them already.

No, what you need, Diana, is good, solid proof. Then you can go on accusing him all you like.

But that was easier said than done. She stepped away from the house, scanning up it. There was an old trellis, swallowed mostly by ivy, and beyond that . . . another window.

An open window.

Aha.

She stood there, gauging the climb. She’d climbed the rope in high school gym class—only about thirty years ago. This would be like that. Sure.

Then, wiping her sweaty palms on the thighs of her pants, she looked up and down the alley to make sure no one was watching her.

All clear.

Are you going to do this, Diana? Or are you going to leave your fate in the hands of Inspector Clouseau?

Fastening the strap of her purse over her head, she rushed the trellis like a bear attacking its prey, digging her hands into the ivy, grabbing hold, and pulling herself up. She was surprised she still had it, whatever it was. When she got about three feet off the ground, she told herself, Hey, this isn’t so bad. But then she looked up, and the window seemed farther away than ever. Was it moving?

This is really not how I expected my first week in Europe to go.

Sweat beading on her brow, she lifted her foot and dug it higher, seeking out the next rung among the foliage. A bee buzzed in her ear. Splinters stuck in her fingers. A wind blew her hair in her face, and she was glad she wasn’t wearing a skirt. She went higher and higher, and it was right when she could nearly reach the bottom of the windowsill that she fully recognized it: I have lost my mind. I am dangling on the edge of a building—about to break into a stranger’s house.