Chapter Seven Cammie
Chapter Seven
Cammie
I never thought there’d come a day when I would rather be indoors on my computer than outside in the trenches of a dig site, but life is full of surprises.
“Camilla,” Ilaria calls out in her annoyingly lovely accent. “Could you brush a little more dirt on yourself ? One cheek, maybe. Like this young woman over here, see?”
My gaze follows where she’s pointing and I find the young woman in question looking less than enthused about being my example for “aesthetically pleasing dirty person.” But she turns her head and resumes what she was doing—a.k.a.
actual field work as a real participant in the field school.
Not just walking in circles around the villa, running a hand over a wall here, a doorway there, looking pensive and wistful.
Like I’ve been conscripted to do, with those exact adjectives, for what Ilaria calls “B-roll” of la Bambina immersing herself in the place that made her…
or something similarly woo-woo and contrived.
This other girl is absolutely judging me, and she has every right. I’d be judging me, too.
Everything about my being here feels fake.
Every silly direction I follow from Ilaria or others on her crew chafes at me.
I didn’t expect to feel so unenthused about my small part in this film.
It’s like I’m in a simulation of the summer I’d wanted—on a dig site that’s special to me, surrounded by people doing the work I’ve always aspired to do, but I’m still just the real Dr. Lovett’s kid, playing dress-up in Mom’s archaeologist clothes.
It definitely doesn’t help matters that I’m dealing with an emotional hangover from yesterday.
I didn’t make it more than a couple blocks before I noticed that West had abandoned me.
Some bodyguard he turned out to be. After retracing my steps for a few minutes with no sign of him, I was more concerned that he’d been the one snatched off the sidewalk, and I’d be the one never forgiving myself.
Without his number in my phone—thanks to Past Cammie for wiping everything West Jacobs from my digital archives—or any idea of what else to do, I decided to take the train back to Villa Russo and hope he’d already be there.
My stomach was in knots the entire way, my braid all disheveled from my nervously messing with it, and it had hit me—was this how it always felt to be West? The possibility was eye-opening.
I’d sweat through every piece of clothing on me by the time I made it back to my floor and speed-walked straight to West’s door.
Only, as I lifted my fist to knock, I heard his muffled voice on the other side.
I nearly collapsed to the floor with relief, and I told myself it was for my own sake, or our parents’, now that we both made it back okay and our guardians didn’t have to worry, let alone ever learn the truth of what we were up to.
I also told myself it didn’t mean anything that even after I returned to my room, assured of West’s safety, I spent a good half hour reclining against our shared wall, listening to the muted sound of his voice.
I couldn’t pick out specific words, but it had the cadence of a phone conversation, long pauses between each time he spoke.
To whom, I’d probably never know. It would’ve come up by now if West had a girlfriend back home, wouldn’t it? Not that I cared.
And it isn’t like I spent the rest of my day eavesdropping.
I had more important work to do as Detective Cammie Lovett with my partner, Deputy Google.
Turns out, Paolo Bianchi is not an uncommon name in Italy.
Not quite a John Smith, but might as well be, for the overwhelming amount of results I got upon my first basic search.
I was able to narrow the terms until I had only a few Paolo Bianchis left who might be the PB—and until my eyes could barely stay open and I had to call it a night.
I’d wanted to get back to it after I enjoyed another breakfast from the Villa Russo buffet.
But Ilaria had cornered me, begging for “just half an hour of your time.” I should’ve known that “half an hour” of my time would actually mean more like three hours in stops and starts as the crew tried out different settings and the light changed, like the sun is prone to doing throughout the day.
Mom had been pulled into helping with something at the field school, bouncing between some of the different pits where student pairs were assigned to survey, with a secondary camera operator catching it all on film.
She seemed happy I was here, even if we weren’t together much, her grin brightening every time she caught my eye in passing.
If only things with West were so simple and clear-cut. I’m annoyed that after explaining my boundaries and the reason they exist, I’m somehow left feeling like the bad guy. There’d been a deep, genuine hurt in his eyes when he’d referred to years of struggling without our friendship.
But do I really know what’s genuine when it comes to Weston Jacobs?
I’d been sure I knew, once upon a time, only to be blindsided and feel like the biggest fool in the end for thinking I understood him so completely.
Am I just going to be the fool again if I give him any benefit of the doubt, walk back what I said about us not being friends, and actually open up to the possibility? I don’t know if I can take that risk.
“Beautiful, yes.” At the sound of Ilaria’s voice, my head snaps her way. “That focus is just like your mother’s when she’s thinking through something complex.”
Whatever my face had been doing, it was more of a lack of focus. At least the footage was giving what they wanted.
Finally, she calls cut and releases me from my filming obligations for the rest of the day. The documentary crew and field school crew both break for lunch, with the latter dining alfresco on a premade picnic spread while the former heads inside for salads and sandwiches.
After a large breakfast, I’m not especially hungry yet.
In fact, my stomach feels a little unsettled.
Completely unrelated, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen or heard any evidence of my next-door neighbor since last night.
I was sufficiently convinced that he made it back from Naples in one piece, but it wouldn’t hurt to lay eyes on him just once, for my own peace of mind.
Back at Villa Russo, I decide the most likely place for West to be is with one of the lunch groups. But when I make a circuit through the dining room, then the terrazzo, I find no sign of him.
I try going back to our hall to check his room.
Not willing to let him know he’s being hunted if I don’t have to, I avoid knocking and instead press my ear to his door.
After waiting a couple minutes without the tiniest blip of a sound, I go into my room and try the same thing against our shared wall.
No dice, and I’m beginning to feel like a creep. Not enough to dissuade me from continuing the search, as now it’s going to bug me not knowing—where else in this place does West hang out?
With decreasing patience, I return downstairs and start exploring the main house’s maze of hallways, peeking into each room with an open door in search of a tall American boy.
When I turn one corner, I nearly run straight into someone walking the other way and stumble backward in my hurry to stop myself.
Two hands reach out and catch me by the shoulders, their palms cold through the cotton of my shirt, and I look up to find them attached to a face I haven’t seen since the Welcome Dinner—Gianmarco Russo, the director of the Villa Russo Research Residency.
I hadn’t thought much about the first impression he made, beyond a generic older white man who seems a little self-important, but that kind of comes with the territory for his demographic.
Up close, however, there’s something off-putting about him.
Dark eyes, maybe a little beady, and sharply fixed on me.
His mouth is one of those that naturally turns down at the corners, so he’s sort of permanently sneering by default.
As if he’s heard my thoughts, a broad smile stretches across his face, splitting his cheeks but not meeting his eyes. I bend my knees a little, which prompts him to remove his icy hands from my shoulders.
“Sorry, sir,” I say, because another thing about these types of men is they love to be afforded respect, even if it’s not real.
“You seem to be in an awful hurry,” he observes, not acknowledging the apology.
“Yes, my mistake. I’m just looking for someone.”
“Oh?” He quirks one bushy eyebrow. “Anyone I can help you locate?”
“I don’t know if you’ve met him,” I hedge. “His name is Weston Jacobs? He’s the son of—”
“Of course I know who Weston Jacobs is,” Dr. Russo says a little tightly. “Just like I know you’re Camilla Lovett. I was familiar with both your parents when we all first worked here, before I was the director. Didn’t Alex and Danny tell you?”
While the smile is still in place, there’s something a little peeved in his voice. I try to hide my surprise at this information because no, my mom didn’t tell me that she knew anything about this man before he became director of this place.
But I have a hunch he wouldn’t want to hear that. I guess no one wants to hear, “No, actually, you didn’t matter enough to be mentioned.” So I put on a false smile of my own and nod, ducking my head sheepishly.
“Oh, of course my mom told me. Sorry, still jet-lagged,” I answer, all silly-old-me. I can only get away with that excuse for so long; might as well milk it. “But yes, I’m trying to find West. Have you seen him around here?”
Dr. Russo hums and his eyes narrow. It takes a lot for me not to shift my weight from foot to foot or start picking at my cuticles. But I never want people to know when they have me off-balance. Especially not this man.