## Scene: Whispers in Italian **Setting:** A cozy café in Alborn, MN, filled with the aroma of freshly baked apple pie. **(SOUND of coffee cups clinking, hushed conversations in the background)** **Isabella** sits by the window, sunlight illuminating her face as she meticulously cleans her camera lens. She’s dressed in stylish yet practical clothes: dark jeans, a cream-colored turtleneck, and a brown leather jacket. A worried frown creases her brow. **(SOUND of heavy footsteps approaching, a chair scraping the floor)** **Hunter**, a tall, imposing figure in a worn leather jacket, sits down opposite Isabella without waiting for an invitation. He places a notepad on the table and clicks open a pen. **Hunter:** (Gruffly) Isabella Rossi? Isabella looks up, startled. She eyes him cautiously, clutching her camera tightly. **(SOUND of Isabella taking a sharp, worried breath)** **Isabella:** (In Italian, voice trembling slightly) Sì, sono io. Posso aiutarla? _(Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?)_ Hunter frowns, taken aback. **Hunter:** Ma’am, I need to ask you some questions about the night of the apple festival. Specifically, about… (He pauses, squinting at his notepad) …Marco Moretti? Isabella pales visibly. Her hand trembles as she sets her camera down on the table. **Isabella:** (In Italian, voice shaking) Marco? Cosa c'entra lui con questo? _ (Marco? What does he have to do with this?)_ Hunter leans forward, his expression hardening. **Hunter:** You knew Mr. Moretti? Look, I don’t speak… uh… Italian. Do you understand English? Just a little? Isabella shakes her head, her eyes wide with fear. She gestures frantically at her mouth and then at her ears, as if to say she doesn't understand. **Isabella:** (In Italian, voice rising in panic) Non capisco! Marco è scomparso? _ (I don’t understand! Marco is missing?)_ Hunter runs a hand through his short hair, frustrated. Her obvious distress tugs at him, but he can’t understand a word she’s saying. **Hunter:** Look, this would be a lot easier if we could… (He trails off, noticing the increasing anxiety on her face.) Don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure this out. **(SOUND of a phone ringing, a gruff voice answering - it’s Hunter’s phone)** **Hunter:** (Into the phone) Yeah, Miller. What’s up? …What? Are you sure? …Alright, I’m on my way. Hunter hangs up the phone, his face grim. **Hunter:** (To Isabella, standing up) Sorry, gotta run. We'll need to continue this later. He flashes her a quick, apologetic nod and strides out of the café, leaving Isabella clutching her camera, a whirlwind of Italian anxieties swirling in the air around her.