Before Altswood Can Cry (The Altswood Saga #4)

Chapter 13 - Synchrony

Chapter 13 - Synchrony

11AM - 1 hour remaining

The taxi ride into the Italian countryside was excruciating. Both because I was soaked in fear over why Jules wasn't responding to my texts or picking up my calls and because my head was having its own little rave up in my skull. Bass drops and shaking dance floors included, I felt like my brain was having a party where it was tripping acid and I hadn't been invited. I alternated between keeping up a conversation with the driver in a mix of poor Italian and English, and nodding off, unable to hold myself alert when my eyes felt so heavy.

It makes sense that he's not picking up, I tried to reassure myself. If he's hiding and eavesdropping on Agent Di Napoli, he obviously can't talk.

Then why wasn't he texting?

As the clock ticked to 11AM on the dot, the taxi driver peered at the GPS coordinates I had given him and pulled off the highway, his eyes searching the scene before his windshield.

"I think we are in Meolo," he told me. "You do not have a name for where you go?"

"I don't," I said. "I don't know what the building looks like, but I would appreciate it if you could take me as close to the pinned location as possible."

My fists were balled under the seat. I needed the tension of my nails digging into my palm to keep me awake. I needed the pain to keep me focused, continually searching for any sign that Jules had been nearby.

The driver stopped on a rural street. I craned my head in inspection, noting that one side was lined with neat, rustic townhouses, stretching three to four stories high, while the other side was bursting to the seam with bars and taverns and cute bookstores.

"It is this one," he said, pointing to the townhouse on our direct left. It didn't look like the location of a nuclear bomb. In fact, it didn't look like anything other than a normal person's place of residence. I bit my lip, wondering if Jules' location had failed to update, or if the GPS locator wasn't accurate.

"Thank you," I said anyway, paying the driver with my phone and getting out. As the taxi drove off, I stared up at the townhouse, squinting at the three story building and eyeing the two doors at the front. Judging by the paint scheme on the exterior walls, this building was split down the middle into two apartments. If I peered down the side of the house, I could see a river running at the back.

Puzzled, I climbed the small steps up to the porch, trying the left door first. My knocks echoed loudly, but drew no response. When I pressed my ear to the wood, it was dead silent on the other side.

"No one's home, I suppose," I muttered, glancing up at all the curtains on this beige-painted side of the townhouse. On the other hand, the right side—painted in deep vermillion—had undrawn the curtains on two of its four visible windows.

I dragged my feet over to the door on the right and knocked, peering at my phone to double-check the location point. It hadn't changed since Jules sent it.

The door opened. I didn't know who I had been expecting to answer, but it was a bland, middle-aged white Italian man, who tilted his head curiously and said, "Yes?"

"Hi," I said. Since I couldn't imagine where else someone might set up a bomb, I asked, "I'm... a... surveyor for an international... um... electric company. Would you be able to let me onto your rooftop?"

The man blinked. "We don't have a rooftop, ma'am. I think you have the wrong house."

Shit.

"I apologize, I must have misread the address," I said quickly. "I don't suppose you've seen my co-worker nearby? Brown hair, blue eyes, American clothes, this tall—?"