Page 5 of Beautiful Evidence

He smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Fair,” he says.

I study him. He looks to be in his early thirties with a lean build and a tailored coat. I see no visible weapon, but his stance suggests training. His eyes are sharp for someone who just happens to work in security.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“To meet you. Make sure you’re okay,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I reply, keeping my expression unreadable. Make sure I'm okay? Is that some fucked up way of saying my father is checking on me? Because that's what this is, right? My father sent me that stiff, and now he's sending his soldiers to follow up and make sure I'm obeying. It's sickening. I move to walk past him, but he gently takes my wrist and I snap my hand away.

“Some people aren’t happy about your involvement in recent cases. I thought I’d check in,” he says calmly, but there is something eerily terrifying about the way he looks at me, like I'm the next victim.

I tense. “You’re not with the police,” I say, "so stay the fuck away from me."

“No,” he replies simply, "I'm notpolizia."

“Then why would you care?” I ask. Now my chest is heaving with adrenaline, preparing me to fight. I don't have my mace,no weapon to fight him off. Even if I did, he's twice my size and trained to kill and I am just a fucking medical examiner.

He leans back slightly. “Because a friend cares,” he growls so quietly, I'm sure it's the devil himself projecting the words into my brain.

I stare at him. “You’re very pushy for a man who wants to reassure me,” I say.

He laughs quietly. “You’re smart. You don’t need the details spelled out, do you?"

I say nothing in response, but I let my eyes turn away from him and stare at the back of the bus where the nuns are boarding with cups of espresso and smiles now.

He pats the back of my shoulder then says, “Take care of yourself, Alessia. Things are moving fast."

Then he's gone, walking away, sliding his hands into his pockets with ease again.

I wait a full minute before I exhale. Then I turn and walk the long way back to the lab, checking over my shoulder every few minutes.

By the time I get back, I'm trembling. The fluorescent lights feel harsher than usual, and every metallic clink echoes through my body, making me jerk. I finish my remaining reports in a daze, barely registering the paperwork or the murmured conversations of passing staff. My coat's on and I'm out the door before anyone can stop me, heart still racing from something I can't rationalize away. That was not a hallucination. That was a message I heard loud and clear.

When I reach my building, dusk is pressing down over Rome. I pause before unlocking the door. Everything looks normal. The same old potted rosemary is still dying on the windowsill. The mail slot's half-jammed with flyers and bills. Nothing appears out of place at first glance.

But the moment I step inside, I know something's wrong. The air feels disturbed. It doesn't feel like someone broke in, but it feels like someone passed through recently.

My apartment is clean because that's how I keep it, maybe unconsciously so I'll know if something looks out of place. Years of terror taught me that. But I check the bedroom and closet. Nothing's missing. Nothing appears to be stolen. I crouch and look underneath the bed. The dust patterns are disturbed and have clearly shifted. Someone has reached under at some point.

I don’t call the police because there’s nothing they can do—not when nothing’s missing, nothing’s broken, and nothing technically happened. There’s no evidence, no forced entry, not even a hair out of place.

But I know what I felt the second I walked in. I know what it means when the air tastes wrong, when objects sit too perfectly, when silence rings louder than it should. Whoever he is, he was here. And every breath I take now is colder because of it.

"Vinny" was a message, cold and direct, and I don't know what it's supposed to mean. But I know it's not good.

I lock every bolt on the door and pull the curtains tightly shut. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let my hands begin to shake.

4

VINCENZO

Alessia doesn’t see me, but I see everything. From where I stand across the street, half-shielded by a storefront awning and the dying light of early evening, I track her reflection in the pharmacy’s glass. She’s standing at the counter, listening as the cashier explains something about availability. Her fingers tap a quiet rhythm against the strap of her bag.

She buys something small and tucks it away in her purse before stepping back out onto the sidewalk. Her path doesn’t take her toward the busier roads near the hospital. Instead, she veers down a narrow lane, one of those local shortcuts people who live here use without thinking. The street isn't lit, not populated, and quiet enough that if she screams, no one will hear.

That suits me just fine.

I follow at a distance. My pace mirrors hers—neither hurried nor lazy. The soles of my shoes make no sound against the uneven stones, and the few people who pass me don’t look at me twice. This part of the job is mechanical. Tailing a mark is old hat to me. And this one I don't even have to hide from because she'snot running scared or calling the authorities. Smart to a point, but dangerous.

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