Page 119 of Saltwater

I swallowed. Nodded. Took his hand.

Helen was haunting me.

When we exited the Palazzo Dugnani, a carabiniere stopped us. He explained that a woman had asked about someone matching my description. He wanted to know if we knew her.

“No,” I said. “Who is she?”

“She shops in the neighborhood,” he said with a shrug. “She buys paints, every Wednesday, at a shop near the main gate. An artist, I think.”

“Do you know where she buys them?” I asked.

He rattled off the name.

That night, while the investment banker was asleep, I slipped out of our hotel and walked the streets until I found her. We’re easy to spot once you know what to look for. She was tall, brunette. Not as smooth as me, but she would do. I pressed a thousand euros into her hand and told her to spend Wednesday waiting for a woman matching Helen’s description, and then I told her what to say, how to playit.

“When you’re done,” I said, “call this number and I’ll pay you another thousand euros.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

I nodded.

She called the next night: “You owe me the rest of the money.”

It was over.

But I couldn’t leave the city. Not yet. I sent the investment adviser back to Zurich; I had to see her one last time. I started lingering in front of La Scala, scanning the crowds. For days, I didn’t see her, just a sea of visitors and Milanese walking to and from the Duomo. On the sixth day, though, I spotted a flash of light. A bobbing blond head amid the throng.

I think she felt the weight of my eyes, because she found me so quickly. We locked onto each other like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

Click.

I could feel the sound of the approaching tram in my chest. A thick, gravelly rumble. Within seconds, the car had separated us. And before it could clear, before she could see me for a second time, I slipped back into the passing crowd.

I am dead now. And it’s never felt so good to be alive.