“You mean the voices?” Byron asks.

“Prego.” Silvio blows out his lips. “Most times, Stefano, he knows they are not real, but sometimes . . .”

“Especially around the time the monastery was demolished, right?” Byron presses. “His symptoms had gotten worse around then?”

“I would not say so,” Silvio says. “To me, Stefano was improving. He did not mention voices. He was too fascinated with the history of our old monastery.”

Alana reaches across the table and takes Silvio’s bony hand in hers. It’s dry and callused in her palm. “Brother Silvio, did you help Stefano free the rats from the crypt?”

Silvio stares at her for a moment and then breaks into a small laugh. “I never believed the rats were still there. I still find it impossible to believe. If Stefano had asked, I would have told him so.” He pats the back of her hand. “Stefano, he did not ask. He never spoke to me of rats at all.”

“Then why did you run away yesterday?” Byron asks.

“Run?” Silvio laughs again. “I am far too ancient to run. No, Don Arturo, he arranged it. He requested I spend time at San Fruttuoso di Camogli. To see their library. And to see what they could absorb of the San Giovanni collection.”

“When did Don Arturo arrange this?” Byron asks.

“He called me yesterday. He told me they were ready for me right away. He booked my train and arranged the boat.”

Sergio looks up from the pages, his expression neutral but his eyes afire. “Excuse us for a moment, brother,” he says as he rises to his feet.

Alana and Byron follow him out of the room and down the corridor to his office. He closes the door behind them and then passes the sheets over to Alana. The words are all in Italian, but the pages clearly are a printout of an email exchange. There are only eight or nine entries, most of them two sentences or shorter. “Is this from Stefano?” she asks.

“Yes,” Sergio says.

“How did you get it?” Byron asks.

“We tracked down the IP addresses for the homes of both Brother Silvio and Don Arturo. The team just intercepted these.”

Her breath catches in her throat. “Which one of them has been communicating with Stefano?”

Sergio flashes her a grim smile.

Chapter

Fifty-Nine

Stefano lies on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling. The room smells of sweat and disease. Nino isn’t speaking anymore, not even in the delirious rambling he lapsed into over the last few hours. Stefano isn’t certain if his roommate is even still breathing, but he’s not willing to get close enough to find out.

O Lord, I have never needed Your guidance as I do now. But even God has gone silent.

Stefano feels the doubt worming its way back into his head. He thinks about when the scheme was first hatched. He was skeptical then, too, but Don Arturo had been so convincing. Stefano thinks of their many conversations, which began as philosophical musings but somehow evolved into planning sessions without him ever noticing.