Page 78 of The Unraveling of Julia

Julia reached for the phone to call Courtney, then stopped herself. She needed to talk it over with somebody, but Courtney wasn’t the right person, after that last phone call. Gianluca was en route, and he rode with an earbud so he could take calls. She couldn’t wait until he got here.

Julia pressed in Gianluca’s number. The phone rang, and was answered after one ring. “Gianluca, hi, are you almost here?”

“Ché?” said a man’s voice, but it wasn’t him.

“Who is this?” Julia checked but she’d called the right number. There was a commotion and men speaking in Italian. “Is Gianluca there?”

“Aspete,” the man said, and another man came on. “Who’s calling?” he asked in Italian-accented English, his voice vaguely familiar.

“This is Julia Pritzker. Who is this?”

“Ms.Pritzker?”

“Yes, who are you?”

“Marshal Torti.”

What?“Why do you have Gianluca’s phone?”

“Why are you calling him?”

“He’s on his way here.”

Marshal Torti hesitated. “I’m sorry to say, he’s been in an accident.”

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Julia drove with tears in her eyes. Gianluca had been in an accident on the way to the villa. He’d been taken by ambulance to a hospital. Marshal Torti didn’t know if he was seriously injured.

She fought to remain in emotional control. Rain screened the darkness, shrouding the road, vineyards, and farmhouses. Red lights blinked ahead. Traffic jammed in a line. It had to be the accident scene.

Julia reached the cars and joined them. Traffic started and stopped again. She craned her head and spotted black-and-white cruisers, their light bars flashing through the gloom.

The scene buzzed with official activity. Floodlights blasted the road with unnatural brightness. Uniformedcarabinieriwaved orange flashlights, detouring traffic onto the grass to the right. Smoking flares made a hazy perimeter.

More uniformed officers stood around parked cruisers, and the floodlights silhouetted their peaked caps and epauleted shoulders. Their cruisers idled, emitting plumes of exhaust. A flat-bed tow truck was parked on the scene.

Julia realized she hadn’t asked Marshal Torti how the accidenthappened. She’d been so upset after he told her that she’d hung up quickly and left. She didn’t know how Gianluca was hit or how many cars were involved.

Julia pulled over on the grass, parked, and got out into the rain. Two uniformed cops hustled toward her, but she got her phone from her pocket and called Gianluca’s number to reach Marshal Torti. “Hello, it’s Julia—”

“Ms. Pritzker, what is it?”

“I’m here, and I want to know—”

“Here? No, you may not breach the perimeter.”

“Marshal Torti says it’s okay. Let me pass.” Julia showed the cops the phone and barreled forward, and thecarabinierihurried after her. She charged through the wet grass and up the embankment. She crossed between the flares, wedged between morecarabinieri, and reached the scene.

Floodlights blasted the road like a nightmare stage set. Gianluca’s Ducati lay on the street, its front end demolished and its bright red finish glistening like fresh blood. A tow truck’s hook-and-chain began to drag it past her, making a hideous scraping sound on the asphalt.

No.Julia’s hand flew to her mouth. She’d been on that motorcycle with him and could still feel her arms around his waist.

“Ms. Pritzker.” Marshal Torti appeared beside her, holding an umbrella over her head. He looked grim under his black cap, which had a plastic cover. His raincoat was black. “I’m sorry, I know you two were friends. Nevertheless, you are not permitted here.”

“How badly was he hurt?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t here. One of my officers called an ambulance before I arrived. You must go.”

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