CHAPTER 18

Elena sat in the dusty attic with her knees pulled up to her chest.

The light from the little window had turned from white to gold. Somewhere below, a bell rang for the end of the day. She had been sitting there for almost two hours, and her tea had gone cold.

The door creaked. Chloe slipped in with a fresh paper cup.

"I am not asking anything," she said, setting it down. "I promised. But I have to tell you something, and then I will go."

Elena's heart tightened. "What is it?"

"Everyone is talking. The sponsor, Mr. Blackwood, asked a student where you work. The girl told him. It is the big man in the grey suit, and nobody says no to a man like that." Chloe bit her lip. "I thought you should know."

Elena did not tell her why it mattered. She only nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

Chloe squeezed her hand and left without another word.

Elena sat very still.

Daisy's Café. He knew. And she knew Adrian well enough to be sure of one thing. When he wanted something, he did not wait. He would walk through that yellow door tonight, sit down at a crooked table, and look for her.

She stood up and brushed the dust off her blue dress.

She was not going to be there.

At four o'clock, the café was empty and warm. The chairs were still upside down on the tables. The smell of cinnamon hung in the air like a hug. Mr. Bell stood at the counter polishing a cup, and he looked up with a soft smile.

"Early again. You are the best girl I ever had."

Her throat closed. "Mr. Bell, I came to tell you something. I cannot work here anymore."

The cup stopped moving.

"Today?"

"Today. I am so sorry. I cannot explain. Someone is coming tonight, and I cannot be here." Her voice shook. "I know it is not fair. You were so kind to me. You gave me a job when I had nothing."

Mr. Bell set the cup down. He came around the counter slowly, on his tired old legs, and stood in front of her.

"Child, look at me."

She looked.

"For weeks I have wondered what you were running from. And I decided it was none of my business. A person's story belongs to them." He patted her hand. "Do you need money?"

"No. I have a little."

"Good." He went behind the counter and came back with a thick white envelope. "Your pay for the week, and a bit more. Do not argue. And this."

He put a small paper bag in her hands. Inside was a warm bun, still soft, wrapped in a napkin.

"For the road," he said. "A girl should never leave on an empty stomach."

Tears slid down her face before she could stop them. She wrapped her arms around his round middle, and he held her like a grandfather.

"The door is always open, child," he whispered. "Always."

"I will never forget you."

"Go on. Be brave."

She walked out into the golden afternoon with the bun in her hand. On the corner, under a lamp post, she took out her phone and typed with shaking fingers.

Alexander, can you help me? I cannot explain. I need somewhere to stay tonight.

The answer came in less than a minute.

I am coming. Wait where you are.

She ate the bun slowly, with tears running down her cheeks. It was sweet and warm, and it tasted like someone had loved her.

A grey car stopped at the curb ten minutes later. Alexander stepped out with his scarf blowing in the wind. He did not ask a single question. He only looked at her face, then opened the car door and said, "Where are your things?"

"At Mrs. Park's. Third floor."

"Then we will get them."

Mrs. Park was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as if she had known. She looked at Elena, then at the tall man behind her, then back at Elena. She said nothing at all. She only climbed up the three flights, helped pack the suitcase with her own old hands, and pressed the lucky coin back into Elena's palm.

"You keep it," she said. "And if anyone asks, I have never heard of a girl named Elena. I am a very forgetful woman."

Elena hugged her, and Mrs. Park patted her back hard, like she was burping a baby.

Alexander carried the suitcase down himself. He put it in the back of the car and held the door for her, gently, as if she were made of glass.

They drove through the town in silence. Elena looked out of the window. The shops were closing. The street lamps were beginning to glow.

"I have a small flat above my gallery," Alexander said at last. "It is quiet. There is a studio on the same floor, with good light. The door has a strong lock. You can stay as long as you need."

"I cannot pay you."

"I did not ask."

"I cannot explain why I am here."

"I did not ask that either." He kept his eyes on the road. "Elena, I will say one thing, and then I will not say it again. Whatever it is, you do not have to face it alone. I will stand next to you."

She turned her head and looked at his profile. He was calm and kind and a little tired from the long flight. He had carried a painting across the sea for her.

A small, warm feeling stirred in her chest. She did not know what it was. She did not want to look at it yet.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He only nodded and drove on.

What she did not see was his hand tightening on the wheel. He had seen the man in the side gallery. He had seen the way that man looked at her, and the way she looked back. He was no fool. He knew a married woman's fear when he saw it.

He knew he had no right to hope for anything.

But when he glanced at her in the passenger seat, with the last light on her hair, he could not make his heart behave.

At six o'clock exactly, the little bell above the café door rang.

Adrian walked in, tall and dark in his grey suit. The few customers looked up and quickly looked down again. He stood still and let his eyes travel across the room. The yellow walls. The crooked tables. The chalkboard menu with a coffee cup drawn in the corner.

He thought of her carrying plates here, in an apron, with blue paint on her thumb.

He sat down at table one.

Mr. Bell came over with a small notebook. He looked at the fine suit, the cold eyes, the stiff hands, and something in his face changed. He knew at once who this was.

"What would you like, sir?"

"Coffee. Black." Adrian looked toward the kitchen. "I am waiting for someone."

Mr. Bell brought the coffee himself. He set it down and stood there a moment.

"She does not work here anymore, sir."

The cup stopped halfway to Adrian's mouth.

"When?"

"This afternoon." Mr. Bell looked at him with calm, kind eyes. "I am sorry you came so far."

"Where did she go?"

"I could not say."

"Could not, or will not?"

"Both, sir."

Adrian put the cup down. The coffee shivered. He looked around the little café at the empty stool by the counter, the clean tray, the yellow apron hanging on a hook by the door. He had come too late.

He stood and laid money on the table. As he turned toward the door, Mr. Bell spoke again.

"She did leave with someone, if that helps. A tall young man in a grey scarf. He pulled up in a car and carried her bag. She was crying, and he held the door for her like she was glass."

Adrian froze with his hand on the door.

"A man in a grey scarf," he said.

"A very gentle sort."

Outside, the bell rang once, sharply, and Adrian's hand closed into a fist.

He had never been jealous in his life. In five years, he had watched his wife wait at a door and felt nothing at all. Now a stranger had carried her suitcase, and something hot and ugly was burning in his chest.

Marcus was waiting by the car. "Sir?"

Adrian did not look at him. He looked at the dark road where she had gone.

"Alexander Cole," he said quietly. "I want to know everything about him.”