Claire felt the heat of his hand and heard the concern in his voice; however, something didn’t feel right. She didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was that the whole picture didn’t fit together. It was like trying to squeeze the wrong puzzle piece into the opening. The shapes were similar, but when you stood back and looked, the picture was wrong. Sitting with her hand in Harry’s wasn’t the right picture. She eased her fingers away.

“It’s amazing that you were able to track me down. I mean, I’ve tried very hard to stay hidden.”

Harry grinned and nodded. “I didn’t say it was easy.”

“Yes, but according to that scenario, you were able to accomplish it, in what, in just a few days? SiJo must have resources I never knew.”

The casual poise faded. “Well, I called some of my old law enforcement buddies.”

Smiling, Claire’s expression softened. “I guess it’s good you did. Otherwise, I’d never have had the chance to tell you how sorry I am about how everything ended.”

Shrugging, he started to answer when a dark-haired waitress came to their table. In Italian, she apologized for the delay and asked if they’d like drinks. Replying appropriately, also in Italian, Claire asked for warm tea while Harry ordered a beer. Before the waitress left, Claire spoke to Harry, still in Italian, “If you’d please excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

She saw the indecision sweep across his face. If he didn’t allow her to get up, it would look suspicious to the waitress. If he did, could he trust her? Claire spoke first to the server, “You know how it is when you’re pregnant. I know every restroom in Venice!” The young woman smiled as Claire turned to Harry and said, “When I get back, I want to hear what you were about to say.”

His expression eased as he stepped from the booth. The waitress pointed toward the hall near the rear of the tavern. Claire’s eyes scanned from side to side as her feet eased down the back hall. Seeing the exit, she glanced back toward Harry smiling down at the screen of his phone, and she prayed the door wasn’t locked. One last glance over her shoulder to see him still looking down, and Claire was again out in the cool autumn air. Reaching for her phone, she dialed. Keeping her face hidden from the wind, she hurried toward Hotel Danieli and listened for a response.

Phil answered on the first ring, “Are you all right?”

“I don’t think so. Something’s weird. Where are you?”

To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.

―George MacDonald

Each step down the west corridor seemed like a hundred. The call requesting his presence in Mr. Rawlings’ office was more than strange. First, the news hit the wires over twenty-four hours ago; Mr. Rawlings’ plane made an emergency landing. Eric wondered with each step who wanted to see him and what they wanted. If it were the police, he’d been advised to play dumb. After all, he’d used alternative identification to fly back East. That same identification was used to rent the vehicle he drove across the Canadian border. Yes, Mr. Rawlings also had alternative identification which no one else knew anything about. They’d had them for years and had used them on occasion. Through the years, Eric never asked questions. Yes, he was paid exceptionally well for his service and discretion; nevertheless, he knew too much, they’d been through too much together.

From the time they were both young, back when Mr. Rawlings was a budding entrepreneur—Mr. Rawlings asked—and Eric did. Maybe he didn’t ask. Was it really a request, if denying wasn’t an option? No matter—neither party ever questioned. It was the perfect working relationship.

Truly, Eric had planned on sleeping for the next few days. Meeting Mr. Rawlings, driving to Canada, seeing him make his way down the concourse on his way to Europe, and driving back to the United States, only to fly back to Iowa all within a forty-eight hour period wiped him out. No one at the estate should’ve monitored his activity, but if they did, Eric had a story for his recent absence.

During his long trip back to Iowa, Eric contemplated the activities he’d done, over the years, to help Mr. Rawlings. There’d been more than a few happenings which encroached upon the limits of the law. Abducting Ms. Nichols was, without a doubt, the most damning; however, Mr. Rawlings said he saw her statement to the police and there was no recollection of her travel to Iowa. Eric’s assistance was only known by his employer.

Since he hadn’t officially been informed of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance, Eric planned to enter the office as he would on any given day. Unless he was told others were present, Eric usually opened the door without hesitation. He assumed Mr. Rawlings allowed this because there wasn’t much that Eric didn’t know. Years of overheard conversations and encounters gave Eric a database of information. Rarely had he opened any door to find something of surprise. On those numbered occasions, when the scene caught him off guard, staying true to form, Eric neither reacted nor later mentioned the incident. In Eric’s line of work, secrecy was a valued and essential commodity.