Which brought York right back to— “Yes, why was Martin standing outside the coffee shop that RJ just happened to be at? Especially since twenty-four hours earlier, he was busy escaping custody in Virginia?”

Roy stopped at the end of a street, beside a gelato shop. Next to it a video store offering dubbed American movies.

“And how did he find her, if he was there for her?” Roy turned off the car.

And York’s brain stopped on a poster in the window of the video store. Winchester Marshall, dressed in a tuxedo, leaning against a sports car.

Jack Powers, international spy, to the rescue.

What an arrogant—

“Winchester Marshall is her cousin.” The words emerged quietly, just his thoughts, audible.

Roy glanced at him, frowned. “So?”

York looked at him, his brain reaching for pieces. “You know, an actor has all sorts of perks that regular people don’t have. They can get backstage. They can hire security to protect them. They can travel internationally, and meet with dignitaries who are fans and…”

Roy gave him a look.

“What if Marshall is…I don’t know—working for the CIA. The rogue group.”

“Like Frank Sinatra.”

“Sinatra worked for the CIA?”

“There are rumors—some of them debunked—that he was a dispatcher—flew people secretly in and out of the country on his private jet.”

“That sneak. Actually, I was thinking John Wayne,” York said. “He allegedly spied for the OSS during USO tours.”

“Cary Grant did some spying too—for the Brits.”

“Exactly. The government has a history of using famous people—actors, athletes, political figures—for their own purposes. What if Marshall is working for Martin?”

Roy’s hand had stopped on the door handle. “But how did Winchester Marshall know he’d see RJ in Paris? It’s a pretty big what-if.”

“He’s a Marshall. You’ve met them, they seem to pop up everywhere.”

Roy’s mouth ticked up one side. “Right. Well, if we ever seen him again, we’ll ask.”

Yeah he would. But yes, with Roy’s question, the theory felt reaching.

His brain just longed to untangle it all, maybe.

He grabbed the door handle. “What a mess. I just wanted to go to Paris. Get engaged. Marry the woman I love. Start a new life.”

“And leave this one behind.”

York nodded, glanced at Roy. “Don’t you…ever want to start over? Leave? Live…I don’t know, a life where your biggest problem is getting the mower to start?”

Roy smiled, something sad. “That’s why I like you, York.”

He frowned.

“You still believe that’s out there.” He pushed open the door. “Let’s get RJ.”