Genevieve has secrets that no one knows. In Rome she can be whoever she wants to be. Her neighbors aren't nosy; her Italian is passable; the shopkeepers and restaurant owners now see her as a local, and they let her be. It's exactly what she wants.
One morning, after getting groceries, she returns to her 500-year-old Trastevere apartment. She climbs to the very top of the staircase, the steps narrowing the higher she goes. When she gets to her door, she puts down her bags and pushes the key into the lock . . .
. . . and the door swings open.
It's unlocked. Sometimes she doesn't lock it because Rome is pretty safe. But Genevieve knows she locked the door this morning. She has no doubt.
What if someone is in her apartment, waiting for her: She should leave, call the police. But she doesn't. Instead, she goes in.
The apartment is empty, and exactly as she left it . . . except for the box on her kitchen table. A box that definitely wasn't there this morning. A box postmarked from New York City. A box that is addressed to "Lucy Callahan."
A name she hasn't used in ten years.