When we got within six feet of the target, Harper started humming—just a little, under her breath. A tune I couldn’t name, but it was familiar. I guessed it was a song she had dancedto once upon a time. The sound, barely a thread, carried to the woman in the sweater. She stilled, then slowly turned.
It was like watching Nanette age in reverse. In the space of a heartbeat, I saw the girl she must have been at fifteen, then the mother she’d become, then the woman who’d lost everything and kept going, anyway.
Nanette’s eyes swept the room, not stopping on us. She finished the rotation, then returned to her painting, but her hand had gone white-knuckled on the clutch she carried.
Harper moved closer, this time letting her voice carry just a little: “A demi-plié, then a stretch, then the first note from Mr. Tchakovsky. Always in that order.”
Nanette’s head jerked. For a second, I saw terror, then calculation, then something that almost looked like hope. She didn’t turn, but spoke, voice as delicate as spun glass.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, in perfect English.
Harper swallowed. “Neither should you.”
Nanette’s posture didn’t shift, but her fingers danced a nervous rhythm on the bag. “How did you find us?”
Harper offered a tiny shrug. “Mom, we knew you’d come to the paintings. You always did.”
That cracked her a little. Nanette’s eyes shone, just for a moment, then the mask slid back into place. “Is it just you?”
Harper lied without a flinch. “Just me right now.”
Nanette turned finally, her gaze pinning Harper. The resemblance was uncanny: same jaw, same arched brow, same soft eyes.
“You’re safe?” she asked, the words a dare.
“I am now. I got away.”
Nanette’s smile was awash with relief. “You always were better at running than me.”
Harper stepped closer. I drifted left, putting myself between them and the rest of the gallery, just in case. “Mom, we have to talk. It’s important.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Nanette’s face. “Is he here? The monster?”
Harper shook her head. “No. He’s not.”
Nanette looked like she wanted to believe it, but couldn’t. She exhaled through her nose. “We can’t talk here. There are eyes everywhere.”
I caught the shift in her stance: fight-or-flight, the old prey animal hard-wired to survive at any cost. “Where?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.
She looked at me, really looked, then at Harper. “You trust him?”
“With my life,” Harper said, and I felt that land in my chest like a hammer.
Nanette nodded once. “There’s a park. Behind the bakery. It’s quiet this time of day.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
We waited until she left, gave it a five-minute lag, then followed. Outside, the rain had turned to mist, dappling the brick and making the world feel smaller, more intimate. We turned at the bakery, then down a narrow alley to a walled garden. It was empty except for three iron benches and a broken statue of a nymph, worn smooth by a century of hands.
Nanette was waiting at the far end. She didn’t sit. She just stood, arms folded, her bag clutched so hard the strap might snap.
Harper hung back, then finally said: “I need your help, Mom. I need to know where Brie is. She’s in danger.”
Nanette looked away. “She’s not herself. She’s… she thinks she’s in love.”
Harper didn’t blink. “Is he Renault?”
A tight nod.
