Herbert Greenleaf sat at a table in the corner outer patio of the Piazza de Spagna, slowly sipping a black coffee, nosed buried deep in his newspaper. Tom looked around for a moment before seeing a grey trilby poking out from the top of paper and sat beside him.

"Thanks for meeting me on such short notice, Tom," said Herbert, his voice urgent. Tom grew stiff as a poker as he slowly descended into his chair and called over a waiter.

"Uh, I'll take one of those cappuccinos," said Tom awkwardly. "Grazie."

"Uno cappuccino in arrivo," responded the waiter with a nod. Herbert slid the newspaper towards Tom.

"Tom, we have a problem. Marge is speaking to the press. She's telling them that she's absolutely convinced of you murdering Dickie. Now, I know you didn't kill my son. You're no killer. But she's running a smear campaign right now and something has to be done. I've placated her for a while but I don't know these people as well as you do so I'm a little out of my element."

Tom peered at Herbert. The usually unflappable Mr. Greenleaf spoke with a quiet desperation. Then he leaned over closely and whispered, to confirm his panic, "what do we do?"

Tom scanned his brain in search for answers. The first logical explanation would be to leave Italy immediately. However, he also knew that leaving would fuel more suspicion, suspicion he wasn't sure to welcome. The waiter returned with Tom's cappuccino and he thanked him before continuing his train of thought.

"Marge isn't well," said Herbert with equal parts worry and disdain. "She's always been a little bit of an...odd duck, but nothing like this. She wants to take you down. And she's not afraid to make sure everyone knows."

Herbert paused.

"There's a ferry leaving for Palermo tomorrow morning. The journey's a little over a day. Dickie had a friend there. A Jack Baker. He's American like you from...Florida, I believe. You could hide out for a few days while I try to smooth things over. I have the best lawyers working for me to clear your name. I just need you to lie low until it blows over. Can you do that?"

Tom nodded. Palermo. Maybe he wouldn't need to worry about returning and set up camp there. Everyone around him had grown suspicious, so the next logical explanation would be to distance himself from those around him, as painful as it was to consider. He had one day, one day to settle his affairs, and then he would be back to running, back to shoving his past in a room. But he needed the key first.

Tom agreed to Herbert's offer and Herbert spent the rest of their appointment speaking of travel arrangements. Tom pretended to listen while averting his gaze from the public. In his mind only, he could feel the red hot glares of the whole of the Piazza pouring into him. His hands began to shake.

"Are you okay?" asked Herbert.

"I'm...fine."

"Your cappucino's probably ice cold by now. I can order another if you want."

"No, thank you though. I should probably head back to my flat, pack a bag, prepare before I leave tomorrow."

"Good man. I respect a man with time management skills, something my son could never grasp," muttered Herbert. There's the Herbert I know, though Tom. I conversation couldn't pass without him at least taking one pot shot at his deceased son.

"Thanks for meeting me and for helping me out. I really appreciate it."

"It's nothing, Tom. Just remember: lie low."