Chapter Five Cammie #5
It’s not a real suggestion. I half expect him to walk out there and turn me in himself.
So it’s a confusing but not unpleasant surprise when I glance up and find West standing by the open doorway, pretending to browse the titles on the bookshelf against the wall while also giving himself a view down the hallway.
I look down again immediately, ensuring he won’t see the grin that tugs at my lips.
For a second, it’s like our friendship never missed a beat.
Like we’ve traveled back ten years and a couple continents away, to the time West kept watch at the door to our families’ on-site cabin in Peru, while I short-sheeted all the grown-ups’ beds.
But then I remember all the ways life has changed since then, and the pang of sadness that lands in my chest is so heavy, it nearly steals my breath.
That’s all the reason I need to shove memories and nostalgia back into the locked closet where they usually stay and focus on the here and now.
I’ll have to send Front Desk Lady a grazie card at a later date, because whatever she needed from Dr. Constantini keeps him busy for juuust long enough that I finish photographing everything in the binder.
I return all items on the desk to where their owner left them and launch myself back toward my chair right as West shouts, “Cam, heads up!”
I freeze, mid-sit, my gaze darting to his frantic expression.
“I mean, er, check out this book I found.” He pulls a random volume off the shelf and holds it up toward me while I plop gracelessly into the chair. At my look of what the hell was that?, he shrugs and his eyes widen, all I’m doing my best, okay?
“Ach so!” Dr. Constantini bellows on his way back into the office, rosy-cheeked and smiley and oblivious to anything amiss. “Sprechen Sie deutsch, Herr Jacobs?”
He nods to the book West grabbed, which I only then register is a German-language copy of Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei. My palm covers my eyes before I can stop it, so I try to play it off like I’m scratching an itch.
“Oh…oh, no,” West stammers. “Or, uh…nyet?”
“Point made, since that’s Russian,” I say.
“But I’m interested in learning it. German, I mean, not Communism.” He’s wincing before the abysmal attempt at a lie is even out. Fortunately, Constantini is distracted with moving back to his side of the desk and beginning to tidy it.
“I do not suggest you start with Marx and Engels—maybe instead one of the phone applications? I hear they are quite good, from my young friends who study languages.” He tears the top sheet off his notepad and looks up at us once more as he holds it out.
“But please, take the book for when you are ready for it—I have many other copies. And for you, Signorina Lovett, the names of some old friends of your mamma. I am sorry to have to cut our time short, but other business has demanded my attention this morning. I hope these are still of some help.”
“Oh, you’ve been a huge help,” I assure him as I take the list, mentally adding, More than you know. “Thank you so much again for your time, and hopefully we’ll see you at the party, right? I’ll send you the details, if you want to give me your email address.”
After heartfelt goodbyes—full hugs to go with our air kisses—and promises to meet again soon, Dr. Constantini sends West and me on our way.
I’m practically skipping with delight as we leave the office corridor and reenter the public side of the museum, with a short list of half a dozen names folded up in one pocket and a whole virtual catalog of potential clues in the other.
Later, when I’m alone with my computer, I plan to scour every picture I took and hopefully assemble a vast collection of possible leads to look deeper into. But I have too much energy and optimism buzzing through my veins to not give myself a sneak peek.
I make a beeline toward the first bench I spot, swinging my backpack onto my lap and extracting the small notebook where I’ve been keeping all my information.
I turn to the page where I’ve listed every pair of initials that gets a mention in Alex’s journal.
Pulling my knees up toward my chest in a casual way of hiding my work from West’s prying eyes, I unfold the paper Dr. Constantini gave me and flatten it against the notebook page so the two lists are side by side.
Carefully, methodically, I run my finger down each line, my eyes darting back and forth to cross-reference the data sets. I don’t look at West when he sits next to me, but I feel his stare burning holes in the side of my face.
“What are you—” he starts, but I cut him off with a shhh before my focus can be broken.
“I’m putting the names in my notebook in case I lose this paper,” I lie easily.
I’m not sure if he believes that answer, but his only response is a weary sigh as he turns to rest against the wall at our backs. I know I still have his attention, though, so I smother the gasp that wants to escape when I spot a match.
Hands shaking, I circle the initials on Mom’s side—P.B.—followed by a name from Dr. Constantini’s—Paolo Bianchi.
We’ve got ourselves a lead.