The living room went silent. Outside, a car passed, tires rolling over wet pavement with a soft, steady sound.
"Ella," I said, "my daughter would be that age now."
She didn't say anything.
"The way she..." My voice caught. "The way she leaned into me. Like she knew me."
"Olivia."
"I know," I cut her off. "I know how this sounds. New York's huge. There are countless girls named Juliet. She just happens to look like me, happens to be six, happens to—" I stopped. Didn't finish with "happens to be named Juliet."
Ella set down her tea and turned to face me.
"You think that's your child?"
I didn't answer.
"You've seen her?"
"I'm teaching her to dance." I closed my eyes. "She calls me teacher."
Ella was quiet for a long time. Long enough that I thought she wouldn't speak.
"Have you met the family?" she asked.
"No." I opened my eyes. "The nanny said 'sir' arranged it, but I haven't met him."
"So you—"
"I know," I said. "I don't know anything. Maybe it really is just a coincidence. But the way that child looked at me—" I stopped, took a deep breath. "She didn't look at me like I was a stranger."
Ella reached out and touched my wrist. Not squeezing, just resting there.
"You want me to ask around?" she said.
I was quiet for a moment.
"Can you?"
She looked at me. The look held sympathy and something else—reluctance.
"Olivia," her voice dropped low, "you know how well that family protects their children. No information gets out. Even the paparazzi can't get a single photo. Whatever I find out won't be more than what you already know."
I nodded.
"But—" She hesitated. "If you really want to know, I can try. Just don't get your hopes up."
I leaned into her shoulder, closed my eyes, said nothing.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. That off-white lampshade became a blurry gray mass in the dark. Leo was in the next room, occasionally turning over, the mattress making soft sounds.
I thought of her—Juliet. How she stood in the doorway of the studio. How she looked up at me. How she felt when she leaned into me, that soft little weight.
I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.
Maybe it really was just a coincidence.
