A restaurant manager from farther down the block told Audrey she could not sit near his entrance because customers might think she was “part of the storefront.”
Then Oliver opened a door.
Not because he knew who she had become.
Because he recognized who she had once been.
That was not part of the experiment.
And the experiment had ended the moment he said her name.
A faint vibration came from Audrey’s canvas bag.
She looked down.
Inside was a small encrypted emergency phone.
One line appeared on the screen.
SITE BLUE COMPROMISED. DO NOT RETURN. CALL WHEN PRIVATE.
Audrey’s stomach tightened.
Marcus Reed.
The investigator overseeing the internal inquiry and her security arrangement.
The discreet apartment prepared for her had been discovered.
Oliver noticed her expression.
“What?”
She returned the phone to the bag.
“The place I planned to stay tonight isn’t available anymore.”
“A hotel?”
“No.”
“Friend?”
“Not nearby.”
“Someone you can call?”
“Yes, but he’s outside the city.”
Oliver looked toward the snow.
Visibility had worsened.
“You’re not going back outside.”
“I can wait here until he reaches me.”
“That could take hours.”
“I’ve already taken enough of your time.”
Audrey stood.
Lucy looked toward the ceiling.
“What about Mom’s painting room?”
Oliver turned sharply.
Lucy continued before he could stop her.
“Upstairs. Nobody sleeps there.”
Audrey shook her head.
“No.”
“It has a bed.”
“Lucy.”
“And its own stairs.”
“Lucy.”
“What?”
Oliver looked at her.
The studio above Bluebird Corner had belonged to Hannah.
Not technically.
The building had come with an unfinished second-floor room when Oliver and Hannah leased the cafe twelve years earlier. Hannah painted the walls herself. She turned it into a small studio, added a narrow bed for afternoons when pregnancy exhausted her, filled the windowsill with jars of brushes, and covered the room with the smell of linseed oil and coffee.
After Lucy was born, Hannah painted less.
After Hannah died in a highway collision three years earlier, Oliver stopped going upstairs unless necessary.
He could handle photographs.
He could handle Lucy asking about her mother.
He could handle the cafe still serving Hannah’s blueberry scones every Sunday.
The studio was different.
The room had remained too complete.
As if opening the door too often might accidentally prove Hannah was not coming back.
Lucy had never suggested anyone sleep there.
Until now.
“Just tonight,” she said.
Oliver looked at Audrey.
The woman had already started gathering her bag.
Audrey said, “I can’t take a family room.”
“It’s separate.”
Oliver heard himself saying it before deciding.
“Exterior stairs. Separate lock. There’s a fire door connecting to the cafe, but it stays locked from the studio side.”
Audrey shook her head.
“Oliver.”
“You said you have somewhere tomorrow?”
“I hope.”
“Then tonight.”
He paused.
“I’ll need identification.”
Audrey nodded immediately.
“That’s reasonable.”
She opened her wallet and handed him a Vermont driver’s license.
AUDREY BELL CARILE.
Oliver studied the photograph.
The woman in it looked polished, composed, wealthier somehow than the woman in front of him, though Oliver could not have explained why.
The name Carile meant nothing.
He returned the license.
“Come on.”
The studio smelled like cedar, old paint, and dust.
Oliver turned on the overhead light.
Hannah’s easel still stood beside the north window.
Two unfinished landscapes leaned against the wall.