Chapter 61

In the early morning light, Ryan drives along curvy roads that make Montepulciano’s roadways seem easy to navigate. He’s tired, punchy from the vending-machine coffee and gas-station junk food. But he’s arrived at the picturesque hilltop town. His thoughts race faster than the tiny car: Is it possible? Alison alive? He shouldn’t get his hopes up. It’s really more wishful thinking, a break from reality. But that’s what everyone said about his memories of Pinky Man.

He considers parking, exploring by foot. The roads are narrow and hills steep. But he needs to cover a lot of ground. He slows, unfolds the sketch Ali gave him all those years ago. The graphite from the pencil has smeared, the creases from the fold dark. He examines the drawing: Ali’s grandparents’ home. It’s where I want to get married, she told him in a statement loaded with promise.

He looks for any landmarks. The street is like the ones before him now: clusters of sand-colored structures covered with ivy and piled on top of one another. The house has a sky-blue door, but other than that there’s nothing that serves as a marker. Ryan imagines there are hundreds of homes like this one in the town. One clue is that it appears to be at the top of a hill. But the town is on a mountain, so there will be no shortage of castles on the hill. He’ll have to do a grid search, drive every street.

That’s already proving challenging, since the place is a bit of a maze. He puts the Mini Cooper in gear and pushes along. He’ll start on the main street, head uphill, look for a blue door. It’s early, the town is awakening. The street is lined with shops, most of which are still closed. A shopkeeper for a fruit market is hosing down the sidewalk out front.

Ryan makes it to the crest of the hill, then descends. The shops give way to homes, which in D.C., they’d call row houses. He glances at the sketch again, then at the line of dwellings.

The sun has disappeared. Clouds have blown in, turning the morning gray. It might even rain. God, he fucking hates rain. He rolls down another street, then another.

He considers stopping at a bar or shop, flashing a photo of Ali—he has only two on his phone, both he’d taken when she wasn’t looking—asking locals if they know her.

And then a small miracle happens. A series of texts that deliver pin drops for locations.

His friends have narrowed down the search to three places.

He clicks on the first link and begins following the directions, making his way to the first address. He parks in front of the house and compares it to the one in Ali’s sketch. He’s deflated when it’s not even close. One down, two to go.

He follows the phone’s directions to the second place, turning onto a side street. It’s another steep hill. The car’s small engine rattles as he makes his way up. When he reaches the top, he peers down the road. More ubiquitous dwellings. What’d he expect? TripAdvisor said the town was built in 1222.

A young woman pedals by on a bicycle, flying down the hill. She’s very French, riding in a skirt and high heels. He watches as her hair dances in the wind behind her. It’s only when she turns the corner that he gets a momentary glance at her profile.

His heart palpitates.

No, he’s imagining it. He used to do that all the time—see someone from behind and for a moment believe it was Ali. Is that what’s happening?

He doesn’t take time to ponder, and instead follows after the woman.

When he turns the corner, he resists flooring the gas. He can see the bicyclist ahead, weaving around cars and other vehicles.

He follows her onto a busier street. There are only two lanes and more foot traffic. Residents heading to jobs, tourists getting breakfast, taking photos.

He’s at a standstill. Cars waiting as pedestrians pour across the street. He sees the woman on the bike intermittently through the gaps. But she’s getting smaller and smaller. He could lose her.

Once he starts moving again, he has indeed lost sight of her. No, wait, there’s a whoosh of hair turning in to a side street.

When he arrives, she’s gone.

He looks up and down the street, but there’s only a handful of people and she’s not one of them.

His imagination is working overtime. He pulls to an open parking space on the street, looks at Ali’s sketch that sits on the passenger seat. He peers around the area again. Maybe the woman went into one of the shops. It’s then he notices his phone. It says the second address his friends identified is only one hundred feet away.

Then he sees it. A bicycle leaning against a lamppost. It’s in front of a business. That’s when adrenaline—God knows how he has any left after this week—rushes through him.

The storefront is an art gallery.