Maybe one day that peaceful place in her heart might become her permanent residence. She just needed to clean up a loose end named William Barnes.

He was trouble. The how and why she was yet to understand. Every time she thought of him the click-click-clack sounded in her head. That never happened with anyone else and she didn’t understand fully what it meant. If she should do something or just ignore him, her innate sense of the next move seemed to be blocked.

She put the diary in the drawer by her bed and closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

The image of the glorious woman with dark hair and peach complexion floated through her mind. She drifted to sleep even though it was only mid-afternoon, and she hadn’t felt tired.

When the telephone rang, for a split-second the disorientation caused her to be so dizzy she felt sick. Startled in that second, she’d imagined she had traveled back through time. Her mother stood before her, frowning, with a warning to be careful and not allow the sun to touch her skin.

“Don’t be silly,” came Nem’s reply. “Here’s my protection.”

She twirled her parasol, confident her mother didn’t understand the rules she’d created to protect herself and the book. Life was in her control because she lived with caution and care.

Shaking her head, she pulled herself enough awake to at least answer.

“Hello,” she said, her brain still so sluggish, demanding she go back to sleep.

As she listened to the caller, she continued to stare at the painting. It really was a beautiful work of art, the colors, the look on the girl’s face and the detail in her parasol.

Annoyance flickered inside her as the person spoke, but she pushed the emotion away as he continued talking. Within a few seconds a smile stretched across her face.

Plans for a nap had just been postponed. Luck was back on her side.

64

William’s words sprung from his mouth as if he was an accomplished actor. For the next thirty seconds he would play a role. To make it authentic he imagined himself as a waiter standing behind the counter of the café, where he’d stolen Orelia’s bag. He pretended he was happy to be contacting a customer who’d endured the injustice of a crime on their premises.

With the pebble in place in his mouth, his voice sounded as different as if he had rewired his vocal chords. He steadied his nerves by using his hands like an Italian as he spoke. In his mind, he saw Orelia believing everything he said.

“Hello? Hello?” she said.

“I’m Franco from Il Cucina. You leave yourrr num-berr with us. Your bag is stole this morning, yes?”

William added what he thought was a brilliant Italian accent, rolling his r’s, adding to the pebble’s vocal disguise. The Googled burglary story suggested to slow your speech but it was his idea to add the pebble and pronunciation.

Nervous beads of sweat spotted his brow. Though he’d talked himself into maintaining confidence, nothing stopped his heart thumping out of control at the sound of her voice.