I wrote her name on my pad and circled it. Jesus, I was like some moonstruck teenager. At least I hadn’t drawn it inside a heart! I crossed her name out and wondered again about her sudden departure. Had she had seen through me? Underneath my facade of cool? What if she never came back to the library? What if I never saw her again?

I let out a sigh so loud the two other scholars on the opposite side of the table looked up. I smiled sheepishly and shrugged an apology. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous, letting a woman I hardly knew get under my skin. Is this what I’d done to the women I had dated—drawn them in, played games, then disappeared once I had them on the line? Perhaps this was some karmic payback? Another sigh. It was nearly closing time, and I was tired. I closed my laptop and slid it into my backpack, along with my pencils and notepads.

I leaned over Chiara’s desk, and she looked up, smiling, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. I asked her if she had seen Signora Greene, perhaps this morning when I’d been out?

Chiara’s lips pursed. “No,” she said, letting go of her hair. “I am the librarian, not polizia.”

I cut through the cloister and alleyway, the guy beside me before I even noticed him.

“Hey, John Smith. Remember? From the other night—at the hotel bar?” He exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke, as if he’d been holding it in for too long.

I eyed him sideways, still wearing his shades and the baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows. Though art dealers came in all shapes and sizes, he didn’t fit any mold I knew, no Prada suit, no designer shoes or sneakers. I asked what he was doing in this part of town.

“I had business a few streets away, was just passing by, and here you are. What a coincidence.”

I thought of my uncle Tommy, the retired cop, how he always said there was no such thing as coincidence.

“How about a drink?” Smith asked. “You look tired. Your research wearing you out?”

Had I told him I was doing research?

“A quick one—on me,” he said, “at the café beside your hotel again?”

I took in his strong build, the hat, the cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth: Brother Francesco’s description.

We walked to the café, the sky growing dark, Smith whistling the whole time, which annoyed me. We found seats at the bar, and he asked what I’d like to drink, reminding me that he was paying, and frowned when I said “Pellegrino.”

He ordered a beer, a Peroni, and made a big deal out of it being my name, joking that I was obviously the heir to an Italian brewery fortune. When I pointed out the different spelling, he waved it away, refusing to give up the joke, which he seemed to find funny and I found annoying.