The host just rolled his eyes. “Guest first, then bozos. Hurry.”

Charlie rushed from the studio and ran down the hallway, past the executive offices to the front desk. He greeted the author and hurried her to the green room, which wasn’t green at all but brown, and strongly resembled someone’s rec room basement from a few decades ago. The author looked around with big eyes and pronounced it “Great!” Charlie’s producer said she was a first-timer and would be a little nervous.

“We’re just about ready for you,” Charlie said, “but we’re running a little late.”

“Sure, sure!” she chirped.

He turned and took off down the hall, past the reception desk and outside. It was a crisp, almost cool June day. The heat didn’t really blast Chicago until July. Charlie jogged through the plaza toward the street and the men.

When he reached them, they didn’t look at him. They were too busy banging on the glass.

“Hey, guys,” Charlie said in a loud voice, raising his hand in a sort of surrender gesture so they wouldn’t think he was being aggressive. The truth was, Charlie didn’t even know how to be aggressive. “Hey, guys,” he said, “we’ve got to stop that.” He thought the “we” was a nice touch.

The one with the tattoos on his neck turned to him. “What do you mean?” Now here was a guy who knew how to be aggressive.

Charlie looked at the tattoos. He never could understand what counted as art-or body art-to some people. The tattoos were all gruesome little images surrounding one big red tattoo-a large A with a circle around it.

“Guys,” Charlie said, “I have to ask you guys to stop.” He thought of how the producer was always talking about appreciation of listeners, so he went on. “We’re really glad you’re our fans, and we’re glad you’re here, but we just need to…”

They still weren’t listening. The little guy looked as if he was about to drop his pants and moon the studio. Charlie took a step closer. He’d have to control this situation or he’d lose his job. And even though this job didn’t pay a dime, he liked it. Really liked it.

So he took another step closer to the men, raising his hands higher in surrender. “Dudes, seriously, you got to stop knocking on the window. Why don’t I get you some T-shirts? Some hats maybe…” His words trailed off. The guy with the tattoos looked at him, and he didn’t seem drunk or even aggressive anymore. He was calm and focused, and he looked as if he recognized Charlie.

Both guys darted toward him, grabbing Charlie around the neck and dragging him to a stairway that led down onto Lower Wacker. Charlie fought against them, but they were powerfully strong, and so was the scent. What was that he smelled? Charlie realized then that they were pushing a cloth over his mouth and nose, and it smelled intense. But just as quick the smell went away. And so did the rest of Charlie’s world.

The Trevi piazza still held a bunch of tourists who didn’t care about the soccer match. Maggie pushed through them, and then I took the lead, dodging past one beautiful church after another and eventually heading down the Corso.

“Where are we going?” Maggie asked.

“I remembered something Elena said. I know where she might be.”

“Where?”

“Palazzo Colonna.”

“The gallery where she works? It’s closed.”

“She keeps a private office there that she said she uses when she needs to escape or to think. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier.”

When we reached the gallery, the tiny side street was mostly dark except for a café up the street, its outside tables empty.

I buzzed at the door of the Palazzo Colonna. No one answered. I looked up at the windows. There were three windows that I figured would have been in the anteroom just before the galleria, then a few high windows in the galleria itself, and finally two others at the tail end. All were dark.

“Doesn’t look like she’s here,” Maggie said.

“Maybe not, but there’s a chance. If I could just figure out…” In my mind, I followed Elena through the galleria, into Princess Isabelle’s apartment, to the far side of the room-twisting and then pushing the pink dress-and into Elena’s office, a hidden one, just like my father’s. I heard Elena saying, This is where I come to escape, to think.

I led Maggie down the tiny street, explaining about the location of the office. “I think once you get through the galleria and the apartment, the office is on this side…” I pointed up at the stretch of building. “There were two windows. They were high up in the room and small.”

“Like those?”

I followed the direction Maggie was pointing. There, two stories above, were rectangular windows lit up orange.

“That’s them.”

“Try to call her again.”

I did. No answer. “Elena, we’re outside,” I said to her voice mail. “Please let us in.” I thought about my first few days in Rome, when I called her over and over. She hadn’t called me back until I texted her.

I picked up my phone and wrote her a text. I’m outside the galleria. Please let me help, whatever is going on. I will stay out here until you are ready to see me.

I showed it to Maggie and hit Send. We stood on the street, waiting. Soon, another ring of shouts burst into the city. Apparently, the soccer match had been won. People streamed into the street, singing soccer songs, chanting and cheering. A crowd of young boys rushed up to Maggie and me, trying to make us dance with them. It made me feel ancient. I could remember a time when I would have found fun in such a scene. I would have linked arms with one of the young boys and let him twirl me around the street. Now, though, it only made me anxious. I wanted to shove them away and yell Basta! the single Italian word that meant, essentially, Enough! Stop it. Get the hell away from me. But I stopped myself. It would have been rude, I knew. I had no right to rain on the parade of these young boys. Finally, they left us. Other people pushed through the streets, clapping and cheering. Still, the two lights upstairs in the galleria remained on.

“Maybe she’s not there,” Maggie said.

“Maybe. I guess I don’t know her well enough to know what she’d be doing right now. It’s the only thing I can think of. It’s the only thing I know to do. It’s the only thing…” My voice rose, taking on a note of panic. I closed my mouth, then looked at Maggie. “Mags, what should I do?”

Maggie furrowed her brow. “Okay, you’re right. We have to do something. Something else.” She stared back up at the two rectangular windows shining into the night. “There’s got to be a fire escape, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “This is Italy. There’s no rhyme or reason to these buildings, and they don’t have codes like we do. Or, at least, they don’t always pay attention to them.”

“What about that?” Maggie pointed to a small garden terrace one floor up from the street and below the lit windows of Elena’s office. “If we climb over that-” she pointed at a stone wall to the right “-we could get to the stairway that leads up to that garden.”

“They must have a security system.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Which would bring anyone inside the palazzo outside.”

“And which would also bring the police.”

“Not if we do it fast enough to trigger the alarm, but just be standing here like we have no idea what happened.”

“Don’t be crazy, you-”

But before I could finish, she was lifting her self onto the fence like a gymnast onto a beam and swinging her legs over it. She landed on the other side. “So far so good.”

“Mags, don’t be deranged. This is my mess. My family. You don’t need to get yourself in trouble.”

She stared up at the terrace and at Elena’s windows, then she turned to me. “Iz, we’re best friends. I know Sam took that spot for a while, and he should have. He was your fiancé. But following you around for the last hour, seeing you go through this hell, it reminds me that the best friend spot is my job again. And so your mess is my mess.” She turned away.