Snakelike, narrow, cobblestone streets dotted with vibrantly colored tiles, watch me storm through to clear my troubled mind. So many questions haunt me! Fresh air is doing me no good!
Though it is safe in my neighborhood, when it is this quiet I always do the smart thing — walk directly in the center of the street, away from the shadows. Cars are obvious when they come. Simple to move out of the way, onto a sidewalk.
Worth the effort.
Just in case.
I needed fresh air, the movement of my body, but it is not helping! How I am so drawn to a man I barely met that I would mourn his death as I do, yet underneath it all, at the same time, retain a suspiciousness of him, his motives, his purpose for being here in Lisbon.
Was there a future fiancé?
A woman awaiting proposal?
Was that a lie?
Is she worried, this woman, when she does not hear from him tonight? Did they schedule phone calls? If they did, she must be worried. She must be! If she exists, she must be very worried. For a man who can get under your skin with one chance meeting, as the American did mine, is not any ordinary man.
And if he was being honest about his intended engagement, then there is a woman who will howl in pain when she hears he is dead.
That is the kind of man he is. The kind you howl for when he is lost to you. I feel this in my bones. My blood. My heart. And lower.
Stopping in my tracks, I gasp and whisper aloud, “The hotel in which he stayed would know his last name! Why did I not ask for it?”
Why why why?!!
Because.
Describing him — a red-haired, handsome man named Caden — was enough to jog the new clerk’s memory and wag his lips.
I could return there, to the other side of town, get his name and find his social print. Notify his intended fiancé, his family, his friends.
My irritated gaze travels up the street, toward an empty patio outside a restaurant I’ve eaten late meals at countless times. A blonde woman with a figure that turns heads strolls out, and my head tilts with curiosity at her. The confident way she walks is opposite to a skittish glean in her eye.
We pass each other, and I ask her, “Are you alright?” in English.
She ignores me, and I notice her long eyelashes are directed at a black Porsche with shadowed windows parked askew with lights off until now. The passenger door is pushed open from inside and she slides in as if it is not her first time dipping down that low in a dress. The metal chain of her purse smacks the paint before snaking inside, door shutting with finality.
I step onto the sidewalk to make room. They speed away and nearly hit me. Through the shadows of her window I can see her staring at me, as if she only just now heard my question...and wishes she could answer it.
I inhale, thinking of what we women go through, and wondering what is her story. Her pain. Her leash.
Wait.
What am I doing?
Where are my feet heading?
I’m walking toward the restaurant she just walked out of, from habit since I have dined there many times, when I intended to go to the American’s hotel.
Did Edward’s men check him out at the desk, making room for new guests to occupy a room with a murderous history? Oh, but there was a problem with a mattress I did not see.
They probably just left the hotel as if they were never there.
Does staff still believe the man named Caden is up in his room? Or have they noticed he has not returned and assume he is perhaps out exploring our beautiful city?
I start to turn around, my eyes on cobblestones, and the door to my neighborhood restaurant opens. Out strolls a man in a suit. My gaze travels from his shiny shoes, up his fit body, and to his face. I freeze in shock, my eyes locking with eyes that cannot be filled with life. Those of the American with rust-colored hair.
OMG, what a place to stop, does she faint or yell from shock?!
Oh wow! I can't wait for the next chapter