Genevieve has secrets that no one knows. In Rome she can be whoever she wants to be. Her neighbours aren't nosy; her Italian is passable; the shopkeepers and restaurant owners now see her as a local, and they let her be. It's exactly what she wants.
One morning, after getting groceries, she returns to her 500-year-old Trastevere apartment. She climbs to the very top of the staircase, the stairs narrowing the higher she goes. When she gets to her door, she puts down her bags and pushes the key into the lock... and the door swings open.
It's unlocked. Sometimes she doesn't lock it because break-ins aren't common in Rome. But Genevieve knows she locked the door behind her this morning. She has no doubt.
She should leave, call the police. What if someone is in her apartment, waiting for her? But she doesn't.
The apartment is empty, and exactly as she left it, perfectly tidy and not a thing out of place . . . except for the small box on her kitchen table. A box that definitely wasn't there this morning. A box postmarked from the US. A box that is addressed to "Lucy Callahan."
A name that she hasn't used in ten years.
