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Her spine. That was the problem. At the end of the night I’d take her back to her hotel and try not to think about it again.

Now she isn't picking up her phone.

I’m trying to convince myself it means nothing. Not everything means disaster. Until it does.

She’s doing it on purpose. That's possible. She's annoyed with me, and maybe she ducked out for ten minutes to make me sweat. Maybe she's standing on a terrace somewhere with a glass of prosecco, smiling at her phone, watching it ring, letting me suffer. She was furious when I told her six minutes.

Except she's never done that. Not once.

I think about it as I cross the floor, weaving past a waiter with a tray.

I've known this girl since she was fifteen years old. A loud, bright thing, following Vittoria around the compound like a shadow that talked too much.

And she listens. She never says no and never interrupts.

She says yes to everyone and everything.

Francesca Renaud stands near the bar across the room with a flute of champagne in her hand and a man on either side of her, both of them laughing at something she's said. She looks up when I approach, and her mouth curves into a smile that's all teeth and welcome.

"There's our handsome stranger," she says. "I don't believe we've met."

"I'm with Amanda White," I say. "Have you seen her?"

The two men drift off, the way people do when they know they’ve been reduced to background. Francesca takes a slow sip of her champagne and tilts her head, studying me over the rim of the glass.

"Amanda." She pauses on the name. "Such a lovely girl. So eager." She lowers the flute and lets her gaze move over me—head, chest, hands—the same appraisal a buyer gives merchandise she's considering. "No, I don’t think I’ve seen her in a while. Why? Has she misplaced you?"

"When did you last see her?"

"You know, you don't look like a man who works in fashion." She steps closer, her perfume heavy in the air. One manicured finger touches the lapel of my jacket. "You look like a man who works in something far more interesting. Tell me, what does Amanda need with someone like you?"

I look at her hand on my lapel until she takes it back.

"Excuse me," I say.

I turn and walk away before she can answer. I move along the edge of the floor until I’m near the bar, where Elio stands with the three businessmen. I stop a few feet behind him and face the room, just another man watching the crowd, not speaking.

"Don't turn around," I say, low, under the music. "Keep your eyes on them."

To his credit, he doesn't turn. He lifts his glass and nods at something one of the men says, and only the slightest stillness in his shoulders tells me he's heard me.

"Amanda's not picking up her phone," I say. "She went to the bathroom. That was ten minutes ago. Maybe more. Go pretend you're looking for the bathroom. Walk every corridor on the left side of this floor. Every door that isn't locked, you open it. You find her, you don't make noise. You call me. Understand?"

Elio sets his glass down on the bar and nods.

Amanda

The cold floor meets my cheek, but I don’t remember falling. People don’t fall in slow motion, do they? But that’s how it felt. Like the world eased me down instead of letting me drop.

Hands are on me, turning me over.

I try to lift my arm. It rises an inch, then drops like dead weight, no longer mine to command. My mouth opens. I can find the word stop in my throat but I can't push it out, can't make my tongue shape it, while the ceiling spins above me in blurred circles of lamplight

A face leans into the light. Aldo.

"Hello there," he says, like I've kept him waiting.

A hand grips my jaw, fingers digging into the soft place under my cheekbone, turning my head one way, then the other, checking me like merchandise. I can't fight it. My neck goes slack and follows where the hand pulls, and some part of me is screaming that my body has been taken from me, handed over to someone else while I watch from a distance.