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She dive-bombs me like the pigeon in the hotel. Except, she comes complete with a rappelling rope, kicking out a ceiling tile and descending to the floor before I even have time to scream. What is it about assassins and bathrooms ? Do they just…have an affinity for small spaces? Or potpourri?

Blood pounds in my ears as I dart for the exit, but she is (obviously) faster, throwing her body in front of the door. In a quick snatch, she closes her fist around my necklace, ripping it off, damaging the microphone before throwing the whole thing in the sink, where the water’s still flowing, and—

In the movies, I’ve seen how this goes. The assassin grabs my hair and smashes my head into the bathroom mirror; I kick, keep kicking, struggle by the sinks, and suddenly (Somehow! With movie magic!) one of us has knocked the pipework loose. The bathroom’s flooding. Water’s slippery under our feet, in kind of a fun water-slide-y way (this is a kid’s birthday party, after all).

And know what? That is almost exactly how it begins. Her hand, shooting out. Reaching for my hair. The rope’s wrapped around her arm, ready to strangle me.

But I really don’t feel like dying today.

“Oooh, you’re a fast one,” she says as I dodge her, dipping low like Flynn taught me.

“How are you so pretty?” I bleat out, panicked, my palms out in the air. Not the first thing I should’ve said, maybe, but she is stunningly beautiful, the type of woman who—if you saw her walk into a fountain—you’d assume she was a movie star, filming. Her hair’s so glossy, it’s like liquid silk, and—“SECURITY! SECURITY! ”

“Don’t yell, Prime Minister,” she says calmly, very quietly, advancing again. The rope tightens in her hands. Her fingernails are painted bubble-gum pink. “Yelling will do you no good. These walls are solid marble blocks.”

“FLYNN!”

She lunges, and I act on instinct, palm thrusting toward her nose. Her head bobs before I have the chance to connect. Her reflexes are catlike. Comparatively, mine are…what? Panda-like?

A cold sweat breaks out across my chest as I wonder if she’s right about the thickness of the walls—and really wish I’d grabbed one of the cake-cutting knives. Not like I have the training to use it…Actually, I take that back. I do. Totally beside the point, but the tiniest part of me also wants to shout that I was right . A female assassin! Knew there’d be one.

“They will think that you ate something spicy,” says the assassin, pushing me back, hard, against the wall. “That you are taking a little longer than usual.”

She says it almost like a joke, like she’s expecting me to laugh, but I’m a little distracted by the throbbing pain at the back of my skull, where my head’s hit marble. I twist, writhe, break free of her grasp for a second as I think about how much time has passed since I walked through the door. A minute? A minute and a half? It’ll be way longer before Flynn knocks, checking to see if I’m all right—and honestly, I’m not sure I want him to. Then he’d be in here with an assassin.

Can he seriously not hear me?

“Bye-bye!” says the assassin, wrapping her hands around my neck. I try to do the move. The one Flynn showed me. The thing! The elbow-slam thing! But it’s harder in real life than it is in practice, and I realize as her thumbs start pressing against my windpipe that I’m not going to win this one unless I say—

“I’m the double!” It comes out as a barely-there rasp. My throat burns. “I’m the decoy!”

She relieves some of the pressure, loosening her grip. “Say that again?” Her accent is…not Italian? But she looks Italian, dark mascara playing on her thick eyelashes.

“The decoy ,” I manage through the crush of my windpipe. “I’m not the real prime minister! I’m not Sofia. If you kill me, you’re not…You don’t have the right person.”

The assassin fully releases my neck, eyeing me. I’m stiff still. “You are different than I thought you’d be,” she says, finally, sliding out a knife from the sleeve of her powder blue pantsuit and turning it over in her hands. Oh, goody. A switchblade . The tip of the blade pinpricks her index finger, but when she speaks again, she points the knife in my direction, like it’s an extension of her body. She seems a little too comfortable using it. “There’s a slight differentiation in your bone structure. And your beauty mark, it just came off. I have a question for you.”

Does she believe me about being the decoy? Does it matter?

I swallow down acid. “Go for it.”

Her accent sounds a heck of a lot more Eastern European now. “When the prime minister did the shoot for British Vogue , do you know if they let her keep the shoes?”

Excuse me? I press my lips together, giving her a tight nod. “They…did.”

I have no idea if they did or not. Or if I just gave the “right” answer.

The assassin nods pensively. “Lucky. Those were excellent shoes. I have tried to purchase the same shoes for myself, but they were out of stock at many retailers. Do you still have the shoes?”

“Not with me currently,” I venture, imagining boots. Leather ones, with laces you could use to choke someone. Strong psychopath vibes, this one. Even so, if she believes me, if she hasn’t killed me…“Mind if I ask who sent you?”

“You can ask.”

The pause is long enough that I add, “Okay, who sent you?”

Her ponytail glistens as she cocks her head, like she’s solving a math problem—and I’m the equation. “Who do you think sent me?”

A member of the crime family? Aksel, the Halverson brother who’s missing? “No idea,” I lie. The longer I keep her talking, the longer I stay alive.

“Oh, come on!” she chides, prodding the air with the knife. “You must have guesses. When you saw me, your first thought was—”

“You have great hair.”

She preens. “I use a silk pillowcase and rinse with cold water. You can also rinse with apple cider vinegar for more shine.” Flicking the knife closed, she shoves the switchblade between her breasts. “So I will not kill you. I don’t make errors on the job, unlike some people I know. Men can be so sloppy. They cut corners. Besides, it’s hot—I don’t like to kill people in the heat—and, woman-to-woman, I did not want to kill you anyway. I’m rarely sent to take out women. You should know, though, that the others will not give you as much of a chance.”

She’s stepped back. I’m inching toward the door, every limb in my body shaking. “Others?”

The thought strikes me cold: Why hasn’t Flynn checked in? Why isn’t he speaking through the earpiece?

“I wouldn’t go out that way,” she says, before pointing toward the bathroom window and tossing me the key to the padlock. “Climb onto the fire escape, go one window down, slide into the kitchen, and leave out the other fire escape into the alley. You can’t trust your own people. So I’d move quickly.”

My head’s spinning. My throat’s closing again.

“Go on,” she says, shooing me with her fingertips. “Scoot.”

Is this a trap? What does she mean by your own people ? The prime minister’s or mine? The CIA?

“If you don’t leave in ten seconds,” says the assassin, reapplying a slash of red lipstick in the mirror, “I really might have to kill you for being so stupid .”

I don’t trust her. Don’t trust her at all. But considering that the knife’s still within her reach, I rush toward the window, undoing the padlock, then prying it open with my fingertips, wood and glass straining, and immediately there are city noises, music and sirens and traffic, and my pantsuit’s skimming the windowpane as I slide onto the fire escape, losing my earpiece in the process. No, no, shit . Summer heat pummels my face, light reflecting off the metal, as I watch it fall through the grate, to the streets of Trastevere below me. It bounces briefly on the pavement, locals whizzing past on bicycles, people bustling in and out of B and Bs, before it gets crushed under the wheels of an Alfa Romeo.

I’ve officially lost contact with Flynn.

Flynn, who’s either waiting for me outside the door or— please, please, don’t let this be true —detained by the “others,” and I’m out here, back against the wall, my heels clattering against the grate; breathing deeply through my nose, I crawl along the fire escape, finding the second window into the kitchen.

It’s open. They’re letting the heat out.

Frantically, I climb inside with an “excuse me, scusi ,” the ashen pieces of Sofia’s note reassembling in my mind, You’re in more danger than you were told, and this is…perfectly normal. Very normal for a foreign leader to Spider-Man-scramble onto the countertop of an industrial kitchen in the middle of a child’s birthday luncheon. Perfectly average for her to knock into one of the dessert stations, smearing the side of her pantsuit with raspberry sauce (which looks delicious, by the way) as her feet touch the floor. Yes, I’m out of the bathroom, I’m away from that assassin, but the danger level doesn’t feel like it’s gone down. It feels, if anything, like she’s turned up the temperature on the gas. The sous chefs pause in bewilderment as I rush past, scanning the countertops for something to defend myself. Spoons. Why are there so many spoons ? Large silver spoons with the smoothest edges possible, and sure, if I really worked for the CIA, I could MacGyver that. I’m sure I could take someone down with those mini prosciutto sandwiches. But I’m me. I’m a chef . My comfort zone’s cooking in the kitchen, not…

Not this.

Not Roderick, spotting me through the circular windows of the dining room and busting through the doors with a “Sofia! Sofia, there you are!” His voice carries above the clash and clang of the kitchen, and I tap at my ear, where the earpiece was, feeling the ghost of it, like that’ll do any good.

I’m trying not to make a spectacle. Trying not to cause a scene.

“Sofia!” Roderick shouts again, and I steal a glance back at him as he picks up his pace, trailing me. He’s wearing what can be described only as a yachting outfit: blue tailored coat, bright white pants, a yellow ascot wrapped around his neck. His face gives away very little. Has he come to try and kiss me or kill me? Who knows! So fun! “Sofia, wait! Be reasonable! Let’s just talk about this!”

He charges left as I dip right, until we’re on opposite sides of the same station. Bisque bubbles in pristine silver pots. Just-boiled lobsters gleam from trays, and I’m panicking, a little delirious. Underneath Roderick’s slick, faux charm is the undeniable hint of malice. I see the flicker of it, the edges of it, bursting into the corners of his eyes. Maybe he and Sofia did have a thing at one point, but now? Now, I’m picking up a meat mallet. It’s hot in my hands. It’s…oddly smooth.

I look down, realizing I haven’t grabbed a meat mallet.

I’ve grabbed the fucking lobster . Roderick gives me a giggle like, Oh, Sofia, so silly, you think you can defend yourself with that?

He doesn’t laugh so hard when I chuck it at him, claws first.

“What the hell was that?” Roderick yells, clutching the side of his face, but I’m already gone. Already spilling out the opposite door, like the assassin told me to do. God, would you listen to me? Like the assassin told me to do. Assassins! Notoriously reliable!

But my gut…believes her. She had plenty of reasons to lie to me, but not many to lie to me about not trusting my own people. Couple that with Sofia’s early warning, with the words she never got to say to me in the powder room, and I’m whipping off my heels in the street, clutching them in my hands, my bare feet pounding the pavement. I’m on the other side of the restaurant, the back end, without Sofia’s security. Shouldn’t there be more security here? Did someone call them off?

It’s nothing but locals and kitchen staff, a few people in white coats smoking tiny cigarettes, eyebrows squiggling as I jet by. Should I go around, back to the front entrance? Find Flynn? Jesus, is he okay ? In one of my pockets is my CIA phone, my American phone in the other, and whom should I call? Gail? What if Gail’s in on it, too? What is it ?

Your own people.

Would it have killed that assassin to be a little more specific?

Just then, a man in a dark suit bursts from the restaurant, jaw clenched, tightly focused. When he spots me, he picks up the pace.

“Taxi!” I yell, rounding the corner. A piazza opens up on the other side of the street—flower stalls and vendors selling espresso. “Taxi!”

The white flash of a sedan stops for me on the curb. All I can think is Away . Out. Away from Roderick, and any other assassins, away from the people who want to harm Sofia. And me.

Head whipping around, checking to make sure the dark-suit man is far enough behind, I dip into the cab shouting, “Drive, drive, drive!” The driver gives me a distinct double take through the rearview mirror, and I return the look with a desperate shake of my head like, Nope, not her, try again . Why would a prime minister be traveling by herself in a random taxicab? This, he seems to think, is a good point, and he turns his attention back to the road, taking off before asking—in Italian, then in English—where I’d like to go.

Where would I like to go?

Where can I go?

Geographically, I’m not even sure which part of Rome we’re in, or where’s safe, or if I have enough spare euros in my coat pocket for the fare, but—“The Trevi Fountain,” I say, picking a place at random, somewhere with a crowd I can slip into. “Do you have a pen?”

The cab picks up speed, cruising away from the piazza, gelaterias whizzing by, and the driver passes me a ballpoint pen with an odd look, eyes flicking between me and the road. I take out my CIA phone, flipping through the two contacts, writing both numbers on the palm of my hand, just in case I run out of battery. Flynn’s, I call first.

“Pick up, pick up.”

My stomach jerks to the side, along with the taxi; I imagine how his face must’ve dropped when he entered the bathroom to find it empty, assassin gone, decoy gone. I imagine him traipsing back through the birthday party, chest heaving, flitting out the doors, wondering where the hell I am and if I’m okay and why it seems like I’ve crawled out a fucking window.

The other alternative is, he’s in worse straits than me.

And I will not allow myself to imagine that.

When I try to call a second time, the phone dies in my hands, and my American phone—naturally—has no roaming Wi-Fi to connect to.

The taxi charges across the river, afternoon traffic giving way to a rushing flow, and it’s all a rushing blur. The party, the assassin one-on-one, the past couple of days. Last night. God, was it just last night ? The way I pressed my cheek into Flynn’s bare chest, the way he held me. It isn’t…it isn’t possible that the assassin was talking about him . He is my people. He is very much my people. The person sworn to protect the body double can’t—in the same breath—be working with the opposition. That’s too complicated. Too messed up.

After nineteen minutes and a hefty charge, the driver drops me off around the corner from the Trevi Fountain. I pay with the second-to-last bill in my pocket, getting a few coins quickly in return, and set off on foot. Where I’m going, no idea, but it feels important to keep moving. Keep moving and find a pay phone. Do those still exist?

Whipping off my jacket and taking down my bun, trying to make myself look a little less ministerial, I weave through the crowd, bare-shouldered, sunburned, watching my back to make sure that no one’s following me with a knife. Not that I’d really know if anyone was following me. I’m not trained in countersurveillance. Is that even what it’s called?

Pay phone.

I spot one by a pizzeria advertising a lunch special in English, the sharp tang of tomatoes hitting my nose before I enter the box, checking the numbers on my hand, punching in the coins, and dialing Flynn. The phone rings; the line crackles with static. I press the receiver closer to my face, fingertips clutching the side of the box to stay steady. “Please, please, please, please…”

By this point, I’m frantic, sick, half out of my mind with worry.

“Hello?” I try when the ringing stops, right before the phone line goes dead, nothing but blank air, the crush of silence. My heart drops. No. No. This can’t be happening.

A sob strangles the back of my throat as I slam in another coin and dial Gail.

She picks up on the first ring, the sharp stick of her voice punching through the line. “Max?”

“Gail.” I don’t recognize the sound of my voice; I palm away a tear before it falls. “Gail, where’s Flynn? Is he all right?”

“Of course he is,” she says automatically, and I allow myself the tiniest breath of relief. “I see that the geolocational services are off on your cell. Just stay on the pay phone another minute, Max, and we’ll locate you. Come retrieve you.”

Cold sweeps into my veins. She doesn’t sound threatening. She sounds concerned, actually. Flatly concerned in a disinterested, Gail sort of way. I remember the first time I met her, how afraid I was, how I fled to the parking lot to get away from her. Sofia’s handwriting, scribbled on the note, mixes with the assassin’s words in my head: Don’t. Trust. Anyone.

“You’re sure that Flynn’s okay?” I push out. “He isn’t hurt?”

“No, he’s perfectly fine—I just spoke with him—but my, this is a mess,” Gail says with a puff of air. “Did you really assault someone with a lobster, as the prime minister?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking. She spoke with Flynn? Why didn’t he pick up for me? “I might’ve.”

“Well, that was an oopsie, wasn’t it.”

“Look, I know you’re used to dealing with professionals,” I say through gritted teeth. “Professionals who know exactly what they’re doing, how to identify who’s an assassin and who’s not, and how to take down people calmly and cleanly, but I’m not them, Gail. I’m doing the best I can, okay?”

She nose-breathes into the phone. After a moment, she says simply, “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?”

“Okay is a very versatile word, Max. It signifies that I heard you, and I understand you, and perhaps we underestimated the breadth of this mission, and how prepared you and Agent Forester were for it. I’ve booked you both flights back to Maine and DC. Yours leaves—”

“Wait, wait, slow down.” I grip the edge of the phone booth, afraid I’m about to pass out. “What did you just say?”

“I’ll sum it up: Vacation’s over.”

My voice is hoarse. “Did you find Sofia?”

“No, but you can no longer be trusted to act as Sofia. Did you blow your cover to an assassin, Max? I’m guessing that’s how you got away? Smart thinking to save your life, but as far as this operation goes, it’s hardly staying under the radar. Add that to your kitchen stunt, and our goose is cooked. Jakob Christiansen’s on his way to Rome right now for damage control; he thinks his sister might’ve suffered a traumatic brain injury, as there’s no other logical reason for her behavior. Only thing we can do now is extract you. Agent Forester has agreed to step down, since he hasn’t exactly handled you properly. He’s in a car on his way to—”

“He’s already leaving?” The phone booth spins, sweat starting to pool above my lip. “He’s leaving Rome?”

“I’m sure he would’ve told you eventually.”

“I…I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe he would’ve told you eventually? Or you don’t believe he’s leaving?”

“Both?” I huff out, doubting myself. Why would Gail lie to me? Isn’t it more likely that the past is repeating itself? Summer ends; Flynn and I end.

“I’ll take a picture with him at the airport. Ten more seconds, Max, and then we can—”

Trace you , she’s about to say. Probably. I don’t wait long enough to find out. My hands are shaking so badly, it’s hard to slam down the receiver. I tighten the jacket wrapped around my waist, hoping the pressure on my stomach will keep me steady. Everything feels like it’s about to just…fall out of me. Fall apart. If I’m interpreting Gail correctly, if what she’s saying is true, it has fallen apart.

Sofia’s been missing for over twenty-four hours. At least one assassin is on the loose. And my goose is cooked. All that matters , Gail once implied, is that you stay undetected as the body double .

That’s the definition of success for this mission. The only way I’ll get the money. The way I was supposed to fix my life, sew the broken pieces of myself—and my family—back together. I’ve…blown that, haven’t I? First with the assassin and then with the lobster. I think about my dad, in that old fishing boat, wishing for a better life for me, giving his away—and me just tossing everything down the drain. Failing. Failing then, failing now.

And Flynn.

He’s off the case.

He’s in a car right now, traveling toward a plane right now, when I’m in the middle of it all, wondering whom the hell I’m supposed to trust.

I stumble out of the telephone booth, into the bright heat of an Italian summer, stranded without a passport and less than twelve euros in my pocket, my chest so tight I can barely breathe.