Page 147 of Black Reign

No Italian.

Nothing matching the woman I've imagined behind Vesper.

Then again, that's exactly what she'd do.

I look at the lipstick print.

Dark pink.

The rose.

The note.

The perfume on my jacket.

She wanted me to build this image.

Maybe it's real.

Maybe it's another Sergei.

Drew watches me put it together.

“You never pictured her like that, did you?”

“No.”

“What did you picture?”

I don't answer.

Because I don't know anymore.

Somewhere in my imagination, Vesper had become European.

Caramel-haired.

Understated.

Maybe small.

Someone with sharp eyes and sharper opinions who could disappear into an Italian street and never attract a camera.

Not Malibu Barbie with enough confidence to drink from my Scotch at my own table.

Drew laughs.

“You look disappointed.”

“I don't care what she looks like.”

“Liar.”

I pick up the rose.

No thorns.

Stem freshly cut.