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Shaking the thought away, I tell myself I’m still suffering from a lack of sleep and the trauma of last night. I haul myself from the bed and tiptoe from the room.
Navigating the landing, I direct myself to the bathroom. It is just as we’d left it. The tub has a faint ring of bubbles around the edge, and my clothes are bundled on the floor where Gianni dropped them. I quickly go to the bathroom, shuddering as the relief floods through me. I finish up and wash my hands. A large mirror hangs on the wall, and as the water runs, I study my reflection, barely noticing the person before me. My blonde hair coils below my shoulders, and the shadows under my eyes are a stark contrast to the pallor of my skin. I’m in desperate need of makeup and a good night’s sleep, both of which will have to wait.
After giving my teeth a rub with some toothpaste I find under the sink, I leave the bathroom and suddenly realize how thirsty I am. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything for hours, and although the thought of food makes my stomach churn, I need a drink.
The stairs loom before me, little shards of familiarity sparking as I step down them, passing framed prints on the walls. I don’t recognize the works, although an illegible squiggle in the left-hand corner of the picture denotes the artist. I do, however, recognize the scene. The intricate architecture of the buildings and the unmistakable Rialto Bridge tell me this is Venice.
The stairs open into a small entryway that’s tidy and functional. There are two doors on either side of the small hallway. I choose the door on my right and enter a minimal-looking living room with a dark sofa and wooden floor. My eyes are drawn to the large, framed artwork on the wall.
I move closer to the six pieces of art. They are framed in simple black, and all depict women drawn in ink with a smattering of bright colors placed on each face like a mask. I can’t decide whether I like them, but I certainly appreciate the talent.
Hugging away a slight shiver, I pull myself away from the six pairs of eyes examining me and head for the door in the right-hand corner of the room. I’m relieved to find the kitchen.
It’s extremely modern, with high-gloss gray and black cabinets that melt into the walls, making them seamless. Among the sterile fittings are hints of color from a vase or well-placed dish, mirroring the art in the other room. I’m beginning to see the full extent of Gianni’s passion for art and design. His entire house screams a style of his own making. No wonder he’d been so fastidious when choosing paintings for the coffee shop.
I find a glass in the cupboard on the central island and pour myself some water from the tap. I take a swig, the ice-cold water running down my insides and into my stomach. I clutch the glass to my chest and decide it’s time to head back up to bed. The thought of which feels odd. The idea I’m here in Gianni’s home, sharing his bed, is absurd, but my thoughts return to Lewis, and my head takes an instant nosedive.
Lewis flashes before me, his eyes half-open, his breath leaving him as I press on towels that are of no use. I cling to the edge of the sink as I push the image away. I breathe in and out, in and out until I gain control.
There is an opening at the end of the kitchen which I figure must be an extension backing onto the house. A square archway leads to a stunning dining room, framed with windows on all sides that look straight out onto a small but well-kept garden. I peer through the glass, trying to make out the details of the garden, but the early morning sun has yet to rise, giving only a pale glow in the night sky that hints at the sunrise yet to come.
I turn to leave, the glass still clutched against my chest, legs ready to move me onward, but I stop. My neck strains to keep my eyes level on the reverse side of the archway that leads back into the kitchen. Two rectangular sections of wall, immaculately plastered and painted a smooth, light gray, flank the entryway. Gianni had bought all six of my paintings but had only hung four in the shop. And here are the missing two, hanging on either side of the archway.
They complement the room beautifully, particularly where he has hung them. They are not of the style that appears to tantalize his taste. However, my use of bold color in contrast to natural tones must have appealed to him, even if the subject matter did not. I place one hand on the back of a dining chair, my mind flirting with the notion he must really like my work to have it hanging in his home. For a person to want to live with a piece of art, they have to love it. Is this what keeps drawing Gianni to me? He hated me on arrival. I know this much from the conversation I overheard with his brother. Yet here I am in his house. Am I here because of what happened tonight? As a kindred spirit. Or is it the love of my talent as an artist? Has he fallen for my artwork and nothing more?
I head back into the kitchen, taking one more sip of the water before pouring the rest down the sink. I’m about to leave the glass on the draining board when I think better of it. I open drawers in search of a tea towel. Some of the drawers are organized—knives, forks, and spoons, all laying obediently between their little dividers—but as I search, I find clutter that has been stowed out of sight. Takeaway menus, letters, leaflets, small screwdrivers, pens, reels of tape, and unidentifiable things surely meant for a toolbox.
My hand reaches into the back of a drawer and closes around some small cards. I retrieve them, turning them over to reveal a passport photograph. I can’t help smiling at the severity on Gianni’s face, albeit a few years younger. I run my finger over his face, wondering if I can conjure a smile. I shuffle the photos, looking at the next one.
I nearly drop it. Blood floods my ears as a pounding begins in my chest. I grip the side of the photograph, frightened I’m seeing things, and the trauma I’ve endured has started me hallucinating. I blink several times, trying to clear my vision, but every time I open them, my eyes fall back onto the image in my hand.
Gianni is standing next to a woman. His skin is smoother, and his hair is slightly longer. He’s younger, much younger than I imagined he could be. But this isn’t what has scared me. I place my hand over my mouth, a shrill cry threatening to escape as I stare at the woman in the photo. She’s beside Gianni, nestled in the crook of his arm. Her smile radiates from her face, and her long blonde hair frames her beautiful portrait. My hand shakes. It is me in the photo. But I don’t remember this. I have no memory of this photograph being taken, yet here I am in the crook of Gianni’s arm. Am I finally going mad? It can’t be. It isn’t. If this isn’t me, then who?
And with a sickening realization, it all begins to fall into place. The fear in Gianni’s eyes when he’d first met me. Why he’d been so shocked when Piero hired me. Amita’s terrified reaction when she met me in the shop. The reason Gianni will not kiss me.
The woman in the photo isn’t me.
She’s Gianni’s dead wife.
ChapterTwenty-Four
“Chloe?” I jump, the photo slipping from my fingers as my head spins to see Gianni standing in the doorway. How long has he been there? “What are you doing?”
I don’t even attempt to explain myself. The shock of what I’ve seen is far too raw.
I quickly pick the photograph up off the floor.
“Who is this?” I hold the photo up, hands still shaking with fear. He glares at me, not looking at the photo. He knows what I’ve found, knows what the implications are. When he doesn’t answer, I carry on. “It’s your wife, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He’s zoned out as if he’s tuned himself into a different frequency where he’s unaffected by all of this.
“Oh, my God.” I slap my hand over my mouth. I’m angry, with anger that threatens to explode any minute. “Your mom… at the coffee shop opening.” I point a finger at him, my words fast and frantic. “She looked at me like she’d seen a ghost. She thought shehadseen a ghost.” Everything is slotting into place, my mind sifting through things that have bugged me for so long. Now I know. “And your argument with Piero, the first time I overheard you in the shop when you asked him why he’d employed me. It was because I look like her.” I spin the photo back around for him to see. Not that he needs a reminder. He only has to look at me to be reminded of her image. The horror of it now is creeping in, the whole idea of it feeling morbid and surreal.
“Is that why I am here?” I ask.
“No, absolutely not.” He’s back in the room, his face ablaze.
“Is that why you stayed with me in my parents’ house? Is that why you seem to have a fascination with me? Is it because I look like her?”
