She lay in his bed, listening to him in the shower. It was 4 in the afternoon on a Saturday. They had plans for dinner, later.
It was the first time she had been to his apartment. Not that she'd had much time to look around. These days they talked little.
Her eye fell to the nightstand, a two drawer affair with brushed silver drawer pulls. Unable to stem her sudden curiosity, she reached down and pulled open the top drawer. Nothing juicy. A dog-eared copy of The English Patient, a few condoms—not that they ever seemed to use them, some prescription sleeping pills.
Bottom drawer: there was a wooden box, the size of cigar box, inside. She froze when she saw the inscription on the top lid.
It was the Rambaldi symbol.
Her heart quickened as she heard the shower slow to a trickle and then, a drip. She reached down and flipped open the lid of the slender box.
Inside were passports, several of them. The one on top of the heap was blue, and bore the American eagle clutching the olive brances in its talons. Her fingers trembled as she drew it out and opened it.
Surname: Garo.
Given names: Peter Allen.
Nationality: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Place of Birth: Oregon, U.S.A.
She sat up suddenly, not even knowing why she was afraid. A chill had come over her despite the warmth under his comforter.
She slipped out of bed and pulled her shirt and underwear on in a haste. She was bending over to get her jeans when she heard the floor squeak behind her.
"Sydney," he said, and she whirled around. He smiled at her and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then his eyes fell on the open nightstand drawer.
He looked at the open box, then at her, and something in his eyes changed.
She trembled and felt like she was watching them on film as she heard herself say, "Who is Peter Garo--who are you?"
He looked away, then back at her. "I don't work at a bank."