I booked the midnight flight at nine forty three.
I had spent the drive back from the school gates thinking about this with the cold clarity that fear sometimes produces, the kind of thinking that strips everything down to its most essential question, and the most essential question was: where would Lucas DiGiallorenzo not think to look for a woman and a four year old boy?
Certainly not London nor Madrid, not anywhere with a direct connection to anything he could trace back to me in under an hour.
Porto.
Quiet. Small enough to disappear into. Far enough from any place I’d been. My university roommate Ana lived there, in a house on a hill above the Douro river with a spare room and a garden and absolutely no connection to anything in my life that Lucas DiGiallorenzo's investigator could
