The cobblestone streets of Portofino were bustling with tourists. Marcus Thorne sat at a small outdoor café, nursing an espresso he didn’t want. He was tired. The train ticket lead from Zurich had gone cold weeks ago.
A street photographer walked by, selling prints of the harbor. Marcus stopped him, flipping idly through the stack of candid shots taken in the market square over the last month.
He froze.
In a photo dated three weeks ago, behind a couple eating gelato, a woman was walking away from the camera. She wore a heavy wool coat and a scarf wrapped around her head, obscuring her face. But the posture–the way she held her head high, the specific curve of her shoulders–was unmistakable.
“How much?” Marcus asked, his voice shaking.
He bought the photo and held it up to the sunlight. On the woman’s wrist, just visible below the coat sleeve, was a faint glint of gold. A bracelet.
“You’re alive,” Marcus whispered, the “Believer” vindicated. “You’re hiding, but you’re alive.”