The Italian

“Yes, two of them. They’re detectives. They’re in the conference room waiting for you now.”

“Shit, okay. Thanks.”

I make my way to the conference room, and I open the door. Two men are sitting at the table, and they stand as I walk in.

“Hello, Olivia. We’re Pedro and Michael. We’re detectives, and we’d like to ask you a few questions, please.”

They’re older and classically cop-like. One is short and bald, while the other looks like a stripper who hired a suit.

“Okay.” I smile as I shake their hands. I gesture to the table and chairs. “Please, take a seat.”

We all sit down.

I cross my legs in front of me as I wait for them to tell my why they’re here. “I’m sorry, you have me at a loss. How can I help you?”

“We are investigating a missing person.”

“Okay…”

“Franco Macheski.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” I ask, confused.

“You probably should,” Pedro says sarcastically. “You went on a date with him three weeks ago.”

Oh shit. Mr. Tinder. “Sorry. Mental block there for a moment.” I feel like a total whorebag.

“He hasn’t been seen since,” he tells me.

I stare at them. “What?”

“You were the last person to see Franco alive. Tell us what happened on the night you went out together. We want to know everything.”

20

Olivia

I screw up my face. “What do you mean he hasn’t been seen since? I don’t understand.”

Pedro replies, “You went on a date with him, and then he vanished into thin air.”

“Oh. I thought it was weird that he never contacted me again.” I shrug with a subtle shake of my head. “I just assumed he didn’t like me.”

The men glance at each other. “Tell us what happened that night.”

“Well…” I pause as I try to remember. “We’d been talking on Tinder for a few weeks and he wanted to meet. We had dinner, and then…”

Shit… then he had a fight with Rico. Do they know that? My eyes rise to meet theirs as horror dawns. Did Enrico have something to do with this?

Holy fuck.

“Go on,” Pedro urges as he takes notes on a small pad of paper.

Goosebumps scatter up my arms.

“Umm.” I stare at them as my brain begins to misfire. I can’t lie for shit. I scratch my head. “He wanted me to go back to his house, and I wasn’t really into him, you know?” I look between them guiltily. “We ended up having a fight about it, and he left in a rush.”

“Did he say where he was going?”