The Lion's Den(100)
Summer wraps her manicured fingers around Brittani’s elbow and hisses something in her ear. Brittani jerks her arm away. “I know, God!” Brittani mutters.
Visible heat waves rise from the blacktop road between us and the village, the streets eerily empty of the summer tourists that have crowded every other city we’ve visited. My eyes are peeled for police, my mind working overtime to formulate some sort of plan to get to the authorities, but I see no evidence of any form of law enforcement.
But what am I thinking? If John owns this town, surely he owns the police as well. My heart sinks. I have to come up with something else. I’m dying to check whether Amythest’s phone has service, but I don’t dare take it out of my purse lest anyone notice it, since I’m not supposed to have a phone at all anymore. But if I can just connect to Wi-Fi, I can upload the video of Summer’s confession to the cloud, where it will be safe no matter what happens to the phone.
The sidewalk is under construction, lined with an orange plastic fence that forces us to walk down the blacktop for a block before turning up a narrow road. The buildings are all shades of weathered terra-cotta and appear to slope with the incline. Most of the stores and restaurants are shuttered. I can’t tell whether it’s due to the time of day or year or whether they’re closed permanently.
A scrawny black cat cuts across our path and scurries into an open window. “Bad luck,” Claire whispers.
“How far is this place?” Summer asks, impatient. “Maybe we should have taken a car.”
“Not far,” Vinny grumbles.
The narrow road empties onto a wider street, and we turn left in single file, trying to stay in the small strip of shadow that hugs the wall. This street is lined with what must be vacant office buildings, though they are in keeping with the general appearance of the rest of the town. Here and there more of the orange barriers block streets and wrap around buildings, though no construction is evident.
As we cross the street, I spy a handful of parked Vespas ahead, all white and bright sky blue. A few blocks away, a lone white car with a stripe that same distinctive shade of blue slowly moves up the road toward us. Is it a police car? I strain to see better without making it obvious that I’m looking, but I have to rush to catch everyone as they turn up another street. I look back as the car passes, and sure enough, it says POLIZIA MUNICIPALE on the side.
Vinny stops beneath a green sign with a picture of a watch, and we all gather in the small patch of shade created by the awning.
Summer turns to us, beaming. “I wanted to do something special for my girls. It took John’s assistants all night to find what I wanted, but here we are. I hope you like it!”
Vinny opens the door, and we all file into the small store. It’s dark and cool inside, and the walls are lined with glass cases full of watches, lit from below. There are no price tags and I don’t know anything about watches, but these look expensive. A wiry gray-haired man in his seventies stands in the center of the shop, smiling at us tentatively.
He silently gestures to one of the cases. A velvet display box is open on top of it, showcasing six identical Rolex watches. They’re lady-size, with silver bands and mother-of-pearl faces.
Rhonda places one on her wrist. “Oh, Summer, they’re beautiful!” she says with strained enthusiasm. “How sweet of you.”
“So beautiful,” Wendy agrees, putting on a smile. “You are so thoughtful. Thank you so much.”
Is she really trying to buy our silence with Rolexes?
The shop owner passes out the watches, and we each slip one on.
“I picked them out myself,” Summer says, pleased. Her eyes land on me. “I figured you could all use new ones.”
So she did notice Amythest wearing mine last night.
Brittani’s scowl dissipates as she studies the watch on her arm. “Thanks, sis,” she says.
“Thank you. It’s gorgeous,” Claire adds breathlessly, unable to meet Summer’s eye.
“Oh, you’re so welcome,” Summer says. “Gotta take care of my girls!”
The shop owner says something in Italian to Vinny, who relays to us, “Okay, now he’s gonna fit the watches to your wrists.”
A tiny old woman who must be the shop owner’s wife appears from the back with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of water. The tray trembles as she carries it across the room and carefully sets it on top of a display case, then proceeds to painstakingly pour and hand each of us a glass of water while her husband measures our wrists and takes notes with a little stub of a pencil and a yellow notepad that looks like it’s been around since he was a boy.
As she hands Summer the glass of water, she says very carefully, “We hope Signor Lyons keep our store. We sell best watches to turisti.”
Summer nods. “Yes, I will send your regards.”
The embassy. Why didn’t I think of it before? I can call the American embassy, tell them what happened. They should be able to help me, right? I have to get out of here, and this is probably the best chance I’m going to get. I hand my watch over to the shop owner and lean in to Wendy.
“I think my Dramamine patch is wearing off,” I whisper. “I’m not feeling well. I need to find a restroom and a pharmacy where I can get another one. Seems like this would be a good time to do that.”
Wendy considers me carefully. “Yeah, you definitely don’t want to throw up here.”