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“Oh, yeah. When the cops showed up on my doorstep, I bolted back to Italy. I was in hiding for six months before they caught the actual killer. I lost my PI license for fleeing the country, and my old firm isn’t ever giving me a job reference.”

“And that experience totally cured you of your white-knight fantasies. Oh, wait…”

He loops his arms around my neck. “Hey, this is not the same thing. At all. I am a fully recovered white knight, who has traded in his fantasies of saving a damsel-in-distress for the much more realistic – and healthy – fantasy of supporting and aiding his capable girlfriend through a difficult time. Instead of pulling you onto my faithful steed and riding off with you, I’m standing by your side and offering the use of my lance. ”

I sputter a laugh.

He hesitates, as if replaying his words, and then rolls his eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, woman.” He pulls me into a kiss and then, with a sigh, moves me aside. “And as much as I would love to distract ourselves with more of that, we need to talk strategy.”

It’s time to share what we know – fully and completely – and plan our next move.

The next morning, we’re on a train to Connecticut. Yes, a train. After yesterday’s encounter, we want to stick to public places as much as possible.

For a disguise, we’re playing “Italian newlyweds honeymooning in New York.” Marco wears shorts, sandals and a button-down shirt, all designer wear, fitting the stereotype of the fashionable European.

I’m in a linen sundress and heels with a wig of long strawberry-blond hair brushed straight.

We both sport shiny wedding bands, and I have a gorgeous fake engagement ring.

We get business-class tickets and speak in Italian. When we need to communicate with anyone, I let Marco do it – he has the properly accented English. Even in Italian, w e mostly chatter about our honeymoon in case anyone nearby speaks the language.

Once on the train, we find ourselves in a half-empty car – it’s midmorning, and we’re traveling out of New York. We can relax then, and while we stick to Italian, we’re not as careful with what we say unless someone’s walking past.

To anyone seeing us, we maintain our personas. I sit with my shoes off and my feet curled beneath me as I lean against my new husband. The perfect picture of newly wedded bliss.

As befits a modern couple, while we’re cuddling together, we’re also on our separate phones.

Marco assured me the train Wi-Fi is safe for what I’m doing, which is getting more information on Jamison’s facility, so we’re prepared.

Marco is the one doing the case work – he’s cultivated a few contacts by trading tidbits of my information.

He’d only traded the stuff I want to give away, of course.

Scraps like “Look at the photo of the redhead at the hotel. Lucy Callahan is five-nine. That woman isn’t more than five-three.

” Or “I’ve heard Lucy received early-morning texts from Isabella.

Has anyone examined Isabella’s phone records?

” Or “Someone called the hotel staff to Isabella’s room when Lucy just happened to be on the premises. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

He has traded carefully, and judiciously and entirely in my best interests.

When I finish checking out the rehab facility, I search for developments on the case. It takes a while before I find one, and when I do, I have to laugh. I expect Marco to ask what’s funny. When he doesn’t – presuming I’ll explain when I’m ready – I finish reading the article first.

“So, get this,” I say, waving the phone.

“Colt gave his first interview as a widower, and the man has actually found a w ay to make this all about him. I’m not sure if I should be enraged by his arrogance or impressed by his ingenuity.

Colt is claiming Isabella’s death is part of a conspiracy against him.

A conspiracy that began – get this – with our scandal. ”

Marco says nothing, as if waiting for me to go on.

“According to Colt,” I say, “someone set him up fourteen years ago. Someone who recognized he was in a vulnerable position and foisted me on him, knowing he’d fall prey to temptation.

” I snort. “Because I was such a temptress. According to Colt, someone sent me to him in his moment of weakness, hoping that the scandal would torpedo his career. Instead, he came back stronger than ever, which proves his talent.”

Marco still doesn’t answer. I lean against him and lift my phone higher so he can see the ridiculously somber picture of Colt acting the role of “mourning widower.”

When Marco says nothing, I twist to look at him. He’s staring into space.

“Marco?” I say.

“Hmm?”

“You missed everything I just said, didn’t you?”

A faint smile as he kisses my temple. “I just got…” He lifts his phone. “I received information from the coroner’s report. Isabella did fall and crack her skull. Enough that she probably lost consciousness, might have even suffered a concussion. But that wasn’t what killed her.”

He looks at me. “While she was unconscious, someone put a pillow over her face and suffocated her.”