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MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY

By late afternoon, Ryan and his classmates stand in a large field. Two giant balloons lie side by side, being inflated like those bouncy rides at kids’ parties. The balloon company’s safety instructor has twice asked Ryan to put away his phone.

Following his dad’s call, he’s been down the rabbit hole of stories about Alison’s car being found at the bottom of Suncatcher Lake. His thoughts are spinning, anxiety heightened because with every new clue in Alison’s disappearance attention returns to the case. To Ryan. The focus on Ryan had died down briefly last year after police announced they’d found Alison’s DNA at the Missouri River Killer’s campsite where that fiend had been arrested. That didn’t get there on its own. But the two bodies in the car don’t fit the MRK narrative. Ryan’s gut curls thinking of that familiar tone in his father’s voice on their call. The circle-the-wagons protective instinct. His dad said that Ryan’s lawyer advised that they remain calm, that they shouldn’t issue a statement because it would only draw attention, a bucket of chum for social-media sharks. Beyond that, Marty said he’d keep tabs on the situation, call if there was anything they needed to do. But how can Ryan just live his life? How can he do nothing knowing the toll this will take on his parents? Ryan takes one last surreptitious look at his phone before they board the balloon baskets. The internet is already alight with theories. Maybe that explains the note: I know who you are. One of those online sleuths discovered Ryan’s real identity and tracked him to Italy. He should’ve skipped this tourist crap and gone to the Palazzo for the meet. He curses himself for being a coward.

The balloon employee divides them into two groups: Ryan, Eddie, Nora, and the frat boys in one; 3D and Clayton and Marci in the other. The burner in the basket is hot and loud, the pilot adjusting the flame. Ryan tries to force himself to be present for the sake of the others, for Nora.

As they are about to float off, Ryan notices a small Fiat pull up to the site. The same miniature car from the winery. That’s weird. Ryan watches as the driver gets out, looks up at the balloons.

Ryan keeps his eye on the man. More weirdness: The guy’s wearing gloves even though it’s still scorching outside.

As the balloon drifts closer to the man, Ryan sees his face clearly, and the breath is stripped from his lungs.

It’s him.

Ryan feels his knees give, he clutches the side.

“Are you okay?” Nora asks.

The pilot of the balloon, an Australian man with sun-beaten skin, says, “He’ll get his sea legs soon, right, boyo?”

Ryan doesn’t answer but holds himself up against the edge of the basket, scrutinizes the man below who is now walking back to his car. The sun is starting to come down, casting a yellow glow over the man. It’s hard to tell in the light, but the man appears to be staring right at him. Then the strangest thing: The man removes a glove and waves up at Ryan.

He’s missing his pinky finger.