Instead of moving toward the bedroom, I gravitate to the unadorned window overlooking the street. I watch traffic zip and whizz past for a few minutes. It may be one in the morning, but the streets teem with energy and movement.
I turn away and glance around the apartment with more scrutiny. Moonlight filters in, illuminating the living room and adjoining kitchen. I can't put my finger on it, but the blankness of this place bothers me.
Every surface is sparkling and fingerprint-free. The typical pile of mail most people have laying around is nowhere to be found. No personal items, such as a pair of shoes or a single photograph are strewn about.
The niggle of unease in my belly quadruples in size and grows into a painful gnaw as I look for something, anything that proves Roman real
