I send a text to the valet lead about a guest who wants his car out front at 3:00 on the dot. I forward a note to Security about a man loitering by the cage a little too attentively. They’re already on it.
At 11:00, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I grab for it quickly. It’s Caterina: He’s stable, waking up on and off. They might be able to take the tube out tonight or tomorrow. Thanks for covering for me.
I type, That’s great! I beg you to stop thanking me. I hover a second, then add, How are you?
Three dots. Holding it together.
I put the phone away and open the door to the Ops bullpen.
Antonio is stable and waking up. He’ll be breathing on his own soon, and I’ve run out of time.
My brain comes up with every reason to push it anotherday. I don’t let it.
Time’s up.
I sit in Roberto’s drive with the engine idling softly, headlights catching on the hedges. I didn’t call. Now I’m parked in front of a closed gate like a coward.
I’m three seconds from putting the car in reverse when the gate smoothly slides open.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one, put it in drive, and roll through.
The house glows the same as it did the other night; warm squares of light against the darkening day. I kill the engine, grab my bag, and walk up the path, every footstep too loud in my own head. I raise my hand and knock. For a ridiculous beat, I picture him opening the door, and everything in me goes tight.
The door swings open, but it isn’t Roberto.
“Olivia,” Clara says, surprised, then softens into a smile that eases me. “Hello, dear.”
“Hi,” I manage. “I— I should have called. I can come back. Or not. I’m sorry.”
She waves off the apology like a gnat. “Don’t be silly. Come in before you freeze.” She steps back, and I cross the threshold; the smell of cleaner is in the air. “He’s out just now.”
Mystomach dips. “Right. Of course. I shouldn’t have just shown up.” I glance toward the hallway, then back to her. “I’ll go.”
“Don’t.” Her hand is light on my forearm, grandmother-gentle, steady. “He won’t be long.”
“I don’t want to—” I start.
“Inconvenience anyone? Cause worry?” She arches a knowing eyebrow. “You couldn’t if you tried. Stay.”
“I don’t know if he’d want that,” I say, honesty slipping out before I can dress it up. “The other night was… and today— I’m not sure where we…” I trail off because I can’t even find the right noun for whatever we are right now.
Clara’s smile deepens with something like fondness and certainty. “He will want that.” She tilts her head. “Tea?”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Tea would be great.”
She leads me toward the kitchen, and the quiet click of her shoes on tile settles my nerves.
The counters are immaculate, the same as always; a kettle sits ready on the back burner as if she anticipated company. She sets water to boil, then pulls down a tin and sets two mugs on the island.
“Chamomile?” she asks.
“Perfect.”
Steam curls. I wrap my fingers around the warm mug when she hands it over and let the heat bleed into my hands.
“Are you sure it’s all right?” I ask. “I can come back another time.”
“He’ll want to see you,” Clara simply says.
