“On second thought, I’ll meet you in the garden.”

Ziggy grabbed her key card. “Meet you in twenty.” She let herself out and RJ opened her suitcase-slash-backpack she’d picked up on a shopping trip a couple days ago, along with a fresh wardrobe—just a few pieces, but she did own a pair of black pants, sturdy sandals and a sleeveless shirt.

She changed, then picked up her new burner phone and checked messages. One from Coco, sent early this morning.

Coco, of course, doing all her work in the wee hours of the morning, when the house was quiet.

I found the contract on York on a site in the dark web. The posting went up the day after you saw Martin in Paris. Two days after he escaped from prison. Be careful. It sounds like York is in the way of something. XO.

RJ sank onto the bed, sorting through the words.

If Coco was correct, the posting went up after York and Martin’s fight. Which mean that maybe Martin hadn’t expected to see her and York at the coffee shop in Paris.

Coincidence? No. She didn’t believe in coincidences.

Martin was there for a reason, and it happened to connect with her random visit to the coffee shop with Winchester Marshall.

She stilled. Winchester. And her words, spoken shortly after York tackled Win into the pool, rounded back on her. Do you think Winchester Marshall is in cahoots with Alan Martin?

It did feel weird that he’d simply invited her to join him for coffee, right?

But they were cousins, so not that weird.

Except, he accepted that connection easily. Too easily, maybe, given his fame.

No…Except…

She typed out a return text to Coco. See what you can find out about Winchester Marshall and his possible connection to Alan Martin.

She waited, but not dots appeared on the screen, so probably her sister had gone to bed.

RJ got up, grabbed her key and left the room.

She took the elevator, which was about the size of a phone booth, up to the top floor, the rooftop garden.

The building was sandwiched into a long line of ancient five and seven story buildings along the bank of the Arno. She reached the top floor, then needed to climb a set of stairs to the top.

But when she emerged, the skyline of Florence across the Arno greeted her, clay-tiled buildings, church spires tall against the horizon, the late afternoon sun backdropping the tall cypress trees and ancient homes that sat on faraway hills.

The terracotta tiled rooftop hosted a number of café tables and chairs. She found one and a waitress emerged from a nearby beverage carts stand. “Ciao.”

“Just a lemonade, if you have one,” RJ said.

“Bene,” the woman said. Mid-thirties, brown hair, she wore a Hotel Bernatello apron, a name tag that read Phoebe.