In Portofino, the rental agent was shouting in Italian, but Marcus Thorne ignored him. He was on his hands and knees in the small kitchen of the empty apartment, digging through the trash bin under the sink.
“Signore, please! This is garbage!” the agent yelled.
Marcus’s hand closed around something soft. He pulled it out.
It was a silk scarf. The edges were frayed, but the fabric was unmistakable–a deep midnight blue. He brought the silk to his face and inhaled.
It didn’t smell of the trash. It smelled of jasmine, sea salt, and something sharper. *Lavender and rain.*
Marcus froze. It was the custom perfume blend Victoria had worn during the A-Side competition. It was a scent that didn’t exist in a bottle; she mixed it herself.
“It’s her,” Marcus choked out, clutching the scarf to his chest. Tears of relief streamed down his face. The woman in the photo wasn’t a lookalike. Victoria Vance was alive, and she had been in this room forty-eight hours ago.