He turned. Took two steps toward the door.
"Do you—" Wren began, without entirely knowing what she was going to add to that.
Freddie looked back.
She had approximately one second in which to produce a reasonable continuation of that sentence. "Did you want anything else? A book, perhaps?"
"I'm fine," he said. And then, as though he'd considered adding something and decided against it: "Thank you."
He left.
The bell above the door settled.
The shop was quiet.
Wren stood at the counter with the receipts for the cedar box sitting where the letters had been. She became aware that Bea had not moved or spoken for thirty seconds.
"What?" said Wren.
Bea said nothing.
"Bea. What?"
Bea picked up the nearest letter — the fourth one, the one she'd set down more carefully than the others — and looked at it. Then she looked at the door. Then she looked back at the letter, and something crossed her face that lasted just long enough for Wren to register before it resolved, deliberately, into her normal expression.
"So, Oliver Hartley."
Wren looked at the door, which was closed, and the street beyond it, where the navy coffee cart sat in its usual spot with no one at the counter. The pen cup on the counter was one pen lighter.
"Oliver Hartley," she agreed.
She pulled her notebook from under the register. Opened it to the page with the underlined heading. Added the name to the list of people who'd been in the shop last Tuesday.
