Four hundred miles away, the air was antiseptic and cold. Marcus Thorne stood at the reception desk of a small provincial hospital in Northern Italy, slamming his hand on the counter.
“Discharged?” Marcus shouted, his patience fraying. “Discharged to where? She had amnesia! She had no identification!”
The administrator, a tired woman with grey hair, peered over her glasses. “Signore, please lower your voice. The patient–Jane Doe–was physically recovered. We needed the bed. She was transferred to a charity ward three months ago.”
“Which ward?” Marcus demanded, clutching the silk scarf in his pocket as a talisman.
“The Sisters of Mercy in Turin,” she replied, checking the screen. “It is a shelter for the indigent.”
Marcus slumped against the counter. Turin was hours away. The trail that had felt so hot in the empty apartment was stretching out again, thinning with every delay. He was an old man chasing a ghost across a continent, fueled only by the scent of lavender and rain.
“I’m coming, Victoria,” he whispered to the fluorescent lights. He grabbed his bag and turned toward the exit, refusing to let the trail go cold.