Chapter 11

MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY

The hot-air balloon lands with a bump in a field, and Ryan stumbles out of the basket. The captain appears to be withholding a smile, clearly amused. Nora clasps Ryan’s arm as if she’s worried he might faint. They don’t understand that his weak knees, his nausea, his fear, aren’t about the fucking hot-air balloon.

In the field, the balloon company has set up a table with rows of champagne flutes. The woman who greets them says something about the champagne being a tradition from the days when it could be dangerous to land on someone else’s property. A universal truth: It always helps to bring gifts.

Nora still holds his arm, which is strangely comforting. He’s recovering. Gaining his footing. Deliberatively slowing the pace of his breathing and racing thoughts.

He notices Eddie walking over. The others are already clinking glasses, taking more photos for their feeds. Ryan pats Nora on the hand to indicate he’s okay, that she should join the group. Is he okay? Maybe, maybe not, but he needs to pull it together. Nora heads over to the others, passing by Eddie, who’s squinting at the sun.

“What’d you think?” Eddie asks.

“About?” Ryan answers, trying to regroup. His mouth is dry, it’s still hard to swallow.

“About the ride, numbnuts. I think the view was overrated.”

Eddie is pretending not to have witnessed Ryan’s embarrassing panic attack.

Ryan starts over toward the group.

“You sure you’re okay?” Eddie asks. “We can just hang back if you need a minute.”

Ryan realizes he’s being handled, by Eddie of all people.

He shakes his head and they join their classmates. Ryan surveys the area. The scene is from a travel magazine. Tuscany’s chamber of commerce. A filtered Instagram post.

Eddie takes a flute and downs the champagne. Offers a nod as if to say, Not bad.

Ryan’s stomach is still churning. His head is thumping. But it’s also clearing. He’s been acting insane. He feels another wave of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Nora, who’s still eyeing him closely.

“For what?”

He narrows his eyes at her.

She gives the hint of a smile. Many people would be annoyed that he’d ruined the ballooning experience. But she seems more concerned than anything.

“What was it?” she finally asks.

“What was what?”

“It’s like you saw that guy at the liftoff site and…” She doesn’t finish the thought.

Ryan looks around. Everyone else is glowing. From the adrenaline of floating in the sky, from the Tuscan sun. He doesn’t want to bring the mood down further.

“I’ll tell you. But later, okay?”

She holds his gaze. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

What will he tell her? That he saw an imaginary monster from his past he isn’t even sure exists? That he’s not who he pretends to be? That he’s lied to them all?

After the champagne, the group thanks the crew—even the asshole captain of the balloon—and two vans shuttle them back to the launch site. Once there, they file into their own van. The bus no one can drive except Ryan.

He plops down in the driver’s seat, notices that someone has tucked something under the windshield wiper.

His chest tightens at the sight of it: another note.

He reaches out the window and clasps the envelope. Making sure no one is watching he tears it open. In the same handwriting as before it says:

Do I have your attention now? Tomorrow, 10 a.m. at the Palazzo.