The Girl Who Drew Buildings

"Drink it," Adrian said. "Then we'll talk."

He slid a mug across the counter. Black coffee, no sugar. Exactly how I took it.

I looked up. "You knew that?"

"It was in the file."

"That file is going to need a lot of explaining."

"I know." He leaned on the other side of the counter, hair still damp. His shirt was buttoned wrong, and I did not tell him. "Good morning, by the way."

Heat crept up my neck. "Good morning."

Neither of us said anything about last night. It sat between us, warm and awkward and very much alive. I stared at my coffee. He stared at his. Somewhere in the apartment, a clock ticked loudly.

"I don't regret it," I said finally. "I wanted you to know."

His shoulders eased a little. "Neither do I."

That was all. It was enough.

Then I picked up my phone, and the warmth faded.

Two new messages. The first was the unknown number again, with no new words. Only the same sentence I had been staring at all night.

I know you remember.

The second was from Julian.

I'm sorry I shouted. Come home. Please. We're worried about you. Milo cried himself to sleep.

My throat tightened. He knew exactly where to press.

"He's using Milo," Adrian said, reading my face.

"I know. And it works." I put the phone face down. "What about the other number?"

"A prepaid SIM. My people can try to trace it, but I doubt they'll find anything."

"Sasha?"

"Possibly. Or someone she's working with." He paused. "Don't reply. Let them wonder."

I nodded. "I need to do something. Anything. If I sit in this apartment I'll go crazy."

"Then work for me."

I blinked. "What?"

"Cole Holdings has an open design director position. You're the most talented architect I've ever seen." He said it plainly, like a fact. "I'm not offering charity."

"It sounds like charity."

"It sounds like a good business decision."

"Adrian." I set my cup down. "For seven years, everything I had came from Julian. My house. My clothes. My name. If I take a job from you, I'm just trading one man's hand for another."

He was quiet. Then he gave a small, stiff nod.

"Then do it your way," he said. "But if you need anything, ask."

"I will."

I meant it. And I hated how much I wanted to say yes.

Professor Elias Warren had taught me everything I knew about light. When I was twenty, he told me I would build something that made strangers stop on the street. When I was twenty-six, he cried at my award ceremony.

I had not called him in seven years.

I found him in the same little café near the university, bent over a crossword, white hair sticking up like a dandelion.

"Professor?"

He looked up. His pen dropped.

"Lena?" He stood so fast his chair scraped. "Lena Hart? Is it really you?"

"It's me."

He hugged me, hard. He smelled of chalk and old books.

"I thought... I was told..." He pulled back, eyes wet. "Sit, sit. Tell me everything. Are you well? Where have you been?"

"Home, mostly." I tried to smile. "Professor, why would you think I was away?"

He frowned. "Julian called me. Years ago, after your son was born. He said you'd retired from design and wanted peace. He asked me not to contact you, because the memories upset you."

The café noise went dull.

"He said what?"

"I wrote to you three times. Every letter came back unopened." Professor Warren fumbled in his coat. "Then ten days ago I received this."

He pulled out a folded sheet and pushed it across the table.

My own name stared up at me, typed at the top.

Dear Professor Warren, I am writing to inform you that I have chosen to leave the architecture profession permanently and relocate overseas with my family. Please do not attempt to contact me. I wish to begin a new life. Sincerely, Lena Hart-Blake.

The signature sat at the bottom, black and neat.

The loops were close to mine. The slant was wrong.

The same hand that had forged the share transfer.

"I've never seen this," I whispered.

"But the signature..."

"It isn't mine."

"Then who..." He stopped. His face went grey. "Julian."

I did not answer. My eyes had dropped to the date at the top of the page. A date I knew. A date I had seen on a hospital wristband.

The day before my accident.

My fingers went numb.

This letter was not meant to explain something that had already happened. It was written to explain something that was about to.

Someone had planned for me to leave the country.

Someone had planned for me to disappear.

"Lena," Professor Warren said, his voice shaking. "What happened to you?"

I looked at the letter, then at the street outside the window, then back at the date.

The accident on Harlow Road had not been an accident.