I glanced up. Before me, Alyssa Iacovani's face was a picture of concern. I realized that I had begun to sway on my feet. With the hand not holding my cell phone, I grabbed the display case in front of me and leaned against it.

The phone chimed, indicating that the phone call had gone to voicemail, and that the voicemail was now recorded.

"Yeah," I said weakly. "It's just that I didn't get much sleep on the plane, and I'm also very hungry."

"Would you like to go to lunch?" she asked, glancing at her watch. "Naples has fabulous seafood down in the Santa Lucia district. I'm hungry as well, and it is about lunchtime."

I shook my head. "Thanks, but I haven't even checked into a hotel yet; I came straight here from the airport. My bags are downstairs. I think I should get settled."

"Of course," she said. "You must be exhausted. Why don't you get some rest tonight. We can catch up tomorrow. How long are you in town for?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully, my mind reeling. I had not told anyone I was leaving. My colleagues, my employees, my family, my friends-and Jeff's-would all begin to wonder about our disappearance very soon. With no answers, they would inquire. And if they inquired, there would be a police investigation. And if there was a police investigation, I would be finished.

I said a distracted goodbye to Alyssa and turned to leave the museum. When I was sure I was clear of her, I retrieved the message from Larry Shuman.

"Dr. Stone"-his urgent voice came through-"I must speak with you immediately. You have not been honest with me..."

The seed of the black poppy... is a pain-easer, a sleep-causer, and a digester, helping coughs and abdominal cavity afflictions. Taken as a drink too often it hurts (making men lethargic) and it kills.

-De Materia Medica Dioscorides (ca. 4090 CE)

Chapter Six.

The background noises of the museum seemed to instantly grow louder, and more discordant. I stepped into a stairwell to replay the voicemail from the beginning. I was certain I must have misunderstood it the first time.

A gregarious group of teenagers burst in after me, each voice shouting over the other in Italian. I blocked my free ear with a finger, straining to hear the impossible words pouring from my phone.

"... toxicology panel... abnormally high levels of opiates in the system... only survivable following repeated exposure and increasing desensitization..."

The teenagers exited the stairwell on the floor beneath me, and their chatter was cut off by the slamming of the heavy door. In the silence, I learned that my ears were not deceiving me.

"Your husband"-the mortician's voice was clearer now-"died from the two gunshot wounds that passed through several vital organs. However, Dr. Stone, at the time of his death, he also had levels of morphine in his system that should have been lethal. Yet, he showed no signs of morphine toxicity as a contributing factor to his death.

"Obviously, this finding concerned me-to the point that I have worked late into the night to confirm it. The data demonstrate unequivocally that your husband had built up a physical tolerance for the drug over some period of time, and you did not disclose this to me.

"Dr. Stone, I don't know who you think you are dealing with, but drug-related crime is simply not something I am willing to involve myself in. I am completing my post-mortem work-up and reporting my findings in their entirety..."

It is impossible, and, yet, here I am.

Nausea overwhelmed me again, and I sat down on the dusty concrete stairs. I leaned over and dry heaved, once, hard. I tilted my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.

Jeff was a drug addict.

It all made sense. The secrecy. The total change in both behavior and thinking. The decision not to trust me with whatever he was running from. The decision to run toward a stranger, a beautiful woman. The paranoia. The obsession. It all made sense.

But it makes no sense.

There is no way.

Stinging tears welled to the surface, and I blinked them back violently.

There will be no two weeks. Shuman is completing his post-mortem work-up and then turning me in.

Jeff was a drug addict.

There is no way this is happening.

In an instant, her disguise fell away, and I saw a different version of Alyssa Iacovani. She was a thinly veiled undertaker, and her museum was a mausoleum, a shrine, a tribute to death. I felt its walls encase me like a burial chamber.

Take a breath, Katrina, I told myself, but I could not. The air had grown thick and stale. I could taste the decay of the mummies lying two floors below me.

You're losing it.

I fought to appear normal as I moved toward the exit, but I could feel myself hyperventilating, my consciousness quickly fading. In a fog, I found the museum's coat check desk. I reclaimed my belongings and stumbled outside, seeking open air like a drowning woman kicking for the water's surface.

There was a horn and a screeching of brakes. I felt the rush of wind upon my face as a metal blur obscured my vision. I leapt back and turned my head just as a speeding car rocketed away, its driver apparently oblivious. I wondered if I had accidentally stepped into the street, but a quick look down confirmed that I was still standing on the sidewalk. And then I was almost run over again.

This time, an entire family on a moped sped by within inches of my face. A man jerked the handlebars left and right as if boxing. Behind him sat a girl of three or four, not bothering to clutch his waist. A woman straddling the rear of the bike squeezed the girl into place while curling a bag of groceries in one arm and an infant in the other like two footballs.

They scooted deftly over the sidewalk to avoid a slow-moving car, not seeming to mind that they had almost collided with a pedestrian instead. The little girl smiled at me as they passed, perfectly comfortable in her element and apparently unaware that this mode of travel could be dangerous or considered the least bit odd by anyone.

After they were gone, I retreated into the shadows of the museum, away from the edge of the sidewalk, and watched the traffic zipping past me. I breathed deeply and, after a few moments, found that I could think again.

I stepped back to the sidewalk's edge and hailed a taxi.

After loading my bags into the trunk, the driver climbed aboard and looked at me expectantly in his rearview mirror. I suddenly realized I had no idea where I wanted to go. "Uh, hello. Do you speak English?" I asked.

The driver held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Un po," he said, which I took to mean "a little."

"I need a hotel."

"Hotel? Quale?"

Shit. This isn't going to work.

My stomach growled violently and my head swam. I thought back to my conversation with Alyssa. "Santa Lucia?" I finally said, hoping I had gotten the name of the seafood district correct.

"Ah, Santa Lucia!" We lurched forward. In contrast to the relaxing limo ride that had induced sleep earlier that morning, this one induced severe carsickness, exacerbated by an empty stomach.

... abnormally high levels of opiates in the system...

From within my purse, my phone chimed again, and I started. It had to be a text message this time because the phone did not ring. But instead of looking down to dig into my purse and find out, I had no choice but to watch the road. I hated that motion sickness could render me so incapacitated at such moments.

The taxi raced down a main street, weaving in and out of traffic that had no apparent legal regulation. There were very few road signs, and the traffic signals seemed only to flash yellow. I could not identify a correct side of the road or a speed limit. The sidewalk was open terrain for motor vehicles as well as for pedestrians. I quickly realized that renting a car was not going to be an option.

The streets doubled as supermarket aisles. Like islands in the center of a fast-moving river stood rows of vendors' tents peddling food, jewelry, handbags, and countless other goods, while the heavy automobile traffic swirled around them. Hurried pedestrians zigzagged back and forth across the traffic like ants, jumping from sidewalk to vendor's tent and then biblically parting on cue to accommodate a racing Smart car. Or a bus. Or a moped containing four passengers.

A siren screaming in the background seemed to follow us for the entire drive through the city center. I wondered if it was one siren or an overlapping of the sounds of several.

I began to doubt I would make it to my destination without vomiting, and I leaned forward to ask the driver to pull over. But then I saw the waterfront and knew that we must be close to our destination.

In sharp contrast to the city center, the waterfront district was relatively serene. The vendors' tents had vanished, along with the vast majority of the motor and foot traffic. We zoomed along a well-paved street with clearly marked lanes and, shockingly, a well-defined sidewalk populated exclusively by pedestrians.

"Questa regione e Santa Lucia," the driver said, motioning with both arms, to the detriment of his steering. I neither knew nor cared what he had said, but I could have cried with relief when he screeched to a halt in front of a large nice-looking hotel. "L'Hotel Santa Lucia!" my driver announced, and I realized that I had inadvertently requested it.

By this point, exiting the taxi was my only priority. I did not wait for him to open my door. I collected my bags and sent the driver on his way. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, gulping at the fresh air to quell the motion sickness. Then I finally began rummaging through my purse to retrieve the message that had come in while I was in the taxi.

When I saw the text message, my nausea quickly returned. It was not from Larry Shuman as I had expected. It was from my daughter. It read: Where r u?

And it was sent to Jeff's phone, not mine.

Once inside my hotel room, I found my phone once again.

I called my daughter, but she did not answer. I hung up without leaving a message. Then I looked at the time signature on the phone's screen and mentally back-calculated. It was now 4:17 a.m. in California.

I walked past the bed and into the bathroom, where I splashed some water on my face. Then I strode across the room and opened the curtains. Brilliant light poured in through a pair of narrow French doors.

I opened the doors and stepped out onto a small balcony. Before me was a large geometrically shaped castle. Surrounding it lay a surprisingly organized aquatic parking lot lined with hundreds of small private boats. Dozens more of its occupants were out for the day, sailing casually through the crystalline crescent-shaped Bay of Naples. Beyond the bay loomed Mount Vesuvius like a massive grim reaper, a fallen angel choosing the moment to rain down its black death from above.

"The castle beneath your balcony is Castel dell'Ovo," the concierge informed me in heavily accented, but clear English. "Just to its left is the small Santa Lucia seafood district. You will need to cross the long bridge toward the castle and then follow the road that turns left off of the bridge just before the bridge enters the castle through the gates."

I thanked the woman and stepped out of the hotel. After a quick walk along the frontage street, I turned onto the bridge she had referred to. Even from across the span of water, I could see the bridge leading directly through the front gates and into the castle. Tall, thick pillars flanked the bridge, and docked boats littered the water lapping its sides.

I had almost arrived at the arched entrance of the castle when the side street leading to the left off of the bridge came into view. I followed this street into a quiet neighborhood containing one restaurant after another. Potted plants and umbrellas decorated patios adjacent to charming old buildings. Beyond them lay the castle to one side, water to the other. I selected a quaint bistro with green and white checkered tablecloths and a view of the bridge. To my surprise, the restaurant was relatively empty, and I was seated immediately at a partially shaded table by the water.

As I waited for my food, I was approached by a guitarist and an accordion player, one heavy, the other thin. I breathed another deep sigh as the duo began serenading me with a beautiful romantic song. A sad, numb, exhausted relaxation enveloped me, and I turned to look out over the serene bay.

I turn to look out over the Seine, finding it necessary to avoid his eyes before I speak.

"I have a daughter."

It is our third and final evening together in Paris, and Jeff and I are once again enjoying a romantic dinner. Through the window beside us, a breathtaking display of lights accents the river and Notre Dame Cathedral beneath a black sky. A pianist is playing and singing softly in French.

Jeff sets down his fork and finishes the last sip of his wine. Then he folds his hands on the table and looks at me attentively. The pianist, too, appears to finish, and she begins gathering her belongings from beside the piano bench.

"Alexis is eighteen now," I continue. "She is a freshman at Berkeley in environmental sciences and has a boyfriend I'm not too crazy about. But he's nice enough, so I guess I should consider that an improvement over some of the others."

I smile, but I am embarrassed. My daughter's taste in men seems to follow closely with my own. Until now, I realize, as I gaze across the table at the monumentally successful, charming, and handsome man who has become a promising love interest over the past three days.

Jeff chuckles softly.

"When I was still working exclusively on anthrax," I say, "Lexi was living with me half of the time. In her earlier teens, she was a bit of an unholy nightmare. At a time when I couldn't trust my daughter at all, I also had Homeland Security tracking my every move.

"You are correct that I developed a treatment for a virulent strain of anthrax, but you also know it was only effective on that strain. So the threat of anthrax remained, and I became the United States' poster child for anthrax research. Between my daughter's unpredictable behavior and my well-publicized work, I was worried something would come to a head.

"Then opportunity began guiding my career toward cancer research, so I embraced it. I thought it would be a safer career path..."

My food arrived, and I tore my eyes away from the Bay of Naples. I glanced around and noticed that the serenading guitarist and accordion player were now singing at another table.

The food was like a drug, and I had to force myself to eat slowly. I dove into the plate of poached salmon with lobster cream sauce on a bed of pasta, and the effects of thirty-six hours of adrenaline began to wane. My stomach gradually settled, and my mind began to clear. At last, I paused for a break from the food.

A large clock on an exterior wall of the restaurant now read 2:33 p.m. It was just after 5:30 a.m. in California. I tried calling Alexis again, this time from Jeff's phone. There was no answer.

"Prego, signora." My waiter laid the bill before me and bowed politely.

I dropped Jeff's cell phone back into my purse and was rummaging for my wallet when the phone began to ring. I glanced at the caller ID. The incoming call was not from Alexis as I had expected. It was from John-Jeff's best friend and personal physician.

I recalled the last time I had spoken to John, when he had called our home after Jeff had missed the Seattle conference. I could feel myself scowling all over again as I answered the phone. "Hi, John."

"Oh, hey, Katrina! How are you doing, my lady?"

"I'm doing great!" I lied. "How are you? I'm assuming surf's up or you wouldn't be calling so early..."

John laughed heartily. "Oops, I'm sorry! Yes, I forgot again. Hope I didn't wake you. Anyway, I'm doing great, except I can't seem to get hold of your husband! Did he tell you to answer his phone and get rid of me?" He cracked up at his own joke. I laughed as well, hoping to sound realistic.

"We were supposed to go golfing this weekend," John continued. "Jeff totally ditched me! Is he still having problems from the stomach flu he had earlier?"

I reflected briefly upon a bout of illness Jeff had endured two weeks prior. Now, I wondered if my husband's "stomach flu" might have been, in truth, morphine withdrawal.

"Nah, nothing like that," I said. "But he is currently off surfing. We're in the Bahamas, actually. I guess he must have forgotten to tell you we were going, but, yeah, we'll be here for the next two weeks. We needed a break."

John's joking demeanor changed. "Oh yeah?" he asked with some concern. "In that case, I hope you're getting some rest. It's no wonder, with the way the two of you work, that you'd burn yourselves out once in a while. Well, tell him that Mai Tais and sunscreen are doctor's orders, OK? And hey-have him call me when he has a chance, would you, dear?"

"Will do, John. You take care."

"You, too, my lady."

I hung up the phone and then stared at its screen for a moment, wondering if John knew something I did not about my husband. If so, doctor-patient confidentiality would prevent him from sharing it.

Speaking to John reminded me once again that I had told no one I was leaving San Diego. John's was not the last concerned phone call I would receive following the sudden disappearance of both Jeff and me. So I began preempting the calls.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" The perpetually cheerful tone of Jeff's mother was a welcome respite. She glowed across the miles as if travel was a rare treat for us.

"Well, Kat, you two have a fabulous time in the Bahamas! Give my son my love. And bring back tons of pictures, OK? I want to see all of them!"

"I will, Mom," I promised, choking on tears. "See you soon."

My own mother has Alzheimer's. Her live-in nurse assured me that all was under control and that she would call me if necessary but that it would not be necessary. I found myself marveling that my mother was so much easier to handle than Jeff's. If only we could all forget the past.

Our respective laboratories and offices were also easy to deal with. I diverted both with brief e-mails sent from our iPhones, offering no explanation as to our whereabouts other than "out of the office."

Then I stared for a moment at the speed dial functions programmed into my phone. I had called all of them except for two.