Fatal Cover-Up. Lisa Harris

was watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she glanced around the massive stone amphitheater with its iconic vaulted arches. Drawing in a steadying breath, she told herself she was simply being paranoid. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.

      She wiped off a row of sweat from her forehead. Of course, it was impossible to know for certain if someone really was watching her. Four million tourists visited this historical monument every year, and today, even with the steamy July heat, the Colosseum seemed busier than normal, with its never-ending lines snaking around the outside of the monument.

      She lifted the bright orange flag she was carrying a few inches higher to ensure the fifteen enthusiastic tourists who had shown up in the heart of Rome to visit the famous site didn’t get separated from her in the crowd. It was her job to see that they left having experienced the best tour of the ruins—even if dismissing the feeling that someone was watching her was proving impossible.

      She studied the crowd as she led them toward the last stop of the tour. Someone from a group of Japanese tourists was holding up a selfie stick for a photo. A small crowd clustered together at one of the open spaces overlooking the floor of the Colosseum. Her attention shifted to a man standing against one of the stone walls to the left. He wasn’t a part of the group, and didn’t seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Had she seen him before today? Normally, she wouldn’t have given him more than a passing glance, but while most of the tourists had cameras or cell phones to take photos, he didn’t. A second later he smiled and hurried toward to a woman holding on to two little girls.

      Talia swallowed hard. She was just being paranoid. The text she’d received last night was nothing more than a coincidence. A wrong number.

      Except she knew that wasn’t true.

      I know you have the paintings. Meet me at the Spanish Steps when you get off work. I know who murdered your husband. You don’t want to be next.

      Her heart pounded. While she didn’t know about any paintings, the mention of her husband’s murder proved this was no coincidence.

      “Were all the gladiators slaves?” A twelve-year-old wearing a baseball cap and a New York Yankees shirt pressed in beside her.

      “Slaves?” she asked. The boy’s question yanked her away from Thomas’s death and back to the present. She pasted on a smile as the group kept walking. “No. Actually, some of them were ex-fighters, knights, or they could be anyone drawn in by the roaring approval of the crowd and the hopes of winning. And no,” she said before he had a chance to pose the frequently asked question, “they didn’t always fight to the death.”

      Talia shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, then proceeded to answer another dozen questions as they walked through the amphitheater that had once held seating for the more than 50,000 spectators. Centuries ago, it would have been tightly packed, much like today, as spectators flocked to watch gladiatorial combats, hunts and wild animal fights, and at times even mock naval battle. But focusing on the Colosseum’s rich history was proving impossible.

      She glanced at her watch. Another five minutes and she’d be done for the day. On a normal Monday, she might have plans to meet a friend for dinner. Today, all she wanted to do was escape back to her apartment and forget about the sinister message. Except she knew she wasn’t going to be able to dismiss it that easily.

      I know who murdered your husband.

      The words played over again through her mind. But it was more than Thomas’s unsolved death that haunted her. He’d been shot during a drug raid, with stolen goods found in his possession. He’d been buried three days later in disgrace. And Talia had been left feeling betrayed by the man she loved. They’d promised to love and honor each other, and she’d meant every word of her vows. But instead he’d dishonored her with his crimes.

      As soon as the last question from one of the tourists had been answered and she’d thanked them for coming, she let out a sigh of relief and headed for the exit. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Normally she loved exploring the history of Rome’s landmarks, but not today. Today, the thick walls seemed to close in on her as she pressed through the crowded walkways.

      And she still had yet to decide her next move.

      She slipped on her sunglasses and hesitated outside the exit, knowing she had three choices. She could go to the police, but what could they do? It wasn’t as if an actual crime had been committed. Not yet. And on top of that, she’d found out the hard way that you couldn’t always trust those sworn to protect.

      Her second option was to follow the demands of the message and head toward the Spanish Steps, an option that made her even more nervous than going to the authorities. What happened when they realized she didn’t have what they wanted? That was why her best choice seemed to be to ignore the message and go home. She started walking again. In less than five minutes she could be sitting on the subway. In another fifteen she could be in her apartment, lost in a good book on her balcony while trying to forget everything she’d left behind three years ago.

      Talia stepped over a crack in the cobblestone walkway as waves of memories flooded through her. As much as she wanted to simply hide, she knew she’d never be able to just ignore the message. The local police department back in the States had never found Thomas’s killer, but neither had she ever heard of any paintings involved in his case. What was the connection of these art pieces to Thomas’s death? How had they found her, and why, after all these years, did someone think she had them? And how was it possible for whoever sent the message to know something the police had never discovered?

      The string of questions unnerved her. She glanced toward the subway station that would take her to the Spanish Steps and hesitated again. She had the private numbers for both the detective who’d led the investigation into Thomas’s death as well as the chief of police he’d worked for. It was still morning in south Texas, so before she contacted the Italian authorities or met with whoever had sent the message, it made sense to talk to the Americans. Decision made, she pressed through the throng of tourists coming and going from the Colosseum toward the subway and home.

      A second later, she felt someone rip her bag from her shoulder, then push her down onto the ground. A sharp pain shot up her knee on impact as a man wearing a hooded long-sleeved T-shirt took off down the uneven pathway with her bag. Before she could get up, a second man shouted and took off after the thief.

      Someone helped her to her feet. Another person handed her her sunglasses, which had fallen off. She thanked them both as she steadied herself. Her legs felt as if they were about to collapse beneath her. The fear pounding through her wasn’t just because she felt violated and vulnerable. Could this incident somehow be related to Thomas’s death and the threat she’d received? She managed a breath, then started back down the road, weaving her way once again through the crowd. About a minute later, the man who’d taken off after the thief ran back toward her, carrying her bag.

      “Thought you might want this,” he said out of breath as he handed over the purse.

      “Wow. I can’t believe you got it.” Her hand shook as she took it from him. “It all happened so fast.”

      He shot her a smile. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

      “And normally I’m the one who tells tourists how to avoid getting robbed.”

      Except today she’d been the one lost in thought and had become an easy target. “So you’re a tour guide.” It was more of a statement than a question,

      “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I was distracted today.”

      She clutched the strap of the bag tighter, distracted by threatening messages and the reminder of her husband’s murder. It was no wonder she hadn’t even noticed the man.

      “Unfortunately the guy who snatched it got away,” the man said, “but I saw a couple police officers not too far ahead. If we could come up with a description—”

      “No...it’s okay.” The last thing she wanted to