The Italian

“No.”

“What restaurant did you have dinner at?”

“Ah.” I snap my fingers as I try and remember the name. I’m beginning to perspire from the pressure. “It’s the one down on the main street, next to the theatre.”

“Apocalypse?” Michael asks.

“Yes, that’s it.” I smile awkwardly. “Maybe check the cameras of the parking lot?” I offer.

“We did. The entire night of security footage has been wiped.”

“Oh.” My face falls as my heart begins to thump hard. “That’s… weird.”

“Very,” Pedro replies calmly. “Where are you staying at the moment?” he asks.

“I’m at a hotel a few blocks down. I just moved here from Australia.”

They both stare at me, as if they’re waiting for me to slip up. “Where were you all weekend?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Lake Como.”

“Who with?”

I have a momentary brain slip. “Alone.”

What the fuck did I say that for?

They exchange looks. “You were alone all weekend?”

r /> I look them straight in the eyes. “Yes, I was.”

Oh, fuck.

I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I need to get away from them. “I have no idea where Franco is. Have you searched his Tinder profile? He’s probably shacked up with someone.”

“Do you have any friends in Italy, Olivia?”

“Just one, a friend from Australia just moved here.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

Our eyes are locked. “No.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I really have to get back to work.” I stand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more useful. Please let me know when you find him.” I shake their hands.

Pedro hands me a business card. “If you think of anything, please call us.”

“I will.” I turn to walk off.

“Oh, and Olivia.”

I turn back to face him.

“Obstructing justice and lying to the police is a criminal offence in Italy, just so you know.”

I fake a smile. “As it should be. Goodbye, gentlemen.”