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“Actually,” she continues, voice shifting back into business, “since you’re out, can you make a quick stop by the studio property?”

I stop several feet before the crosswalk. “Why?”

“The new owner found some things upstairs. Said they might be yours.”

“I thought we cleared it.”

“So did I. I guess construction people are better archaeologists than we are.”

I glance down the street.

“Do you need me to go?” Jessica asks.

“No,” I say. “I’ll stop in.”

The old studio is one street over and several blocks down, close enough that driving would be ridiculous and far enough that I have time to regret walking.

There’s no such thing as spring in the Ohio Valley. It’s either summer or winter, and it doesn’t look at the calendar when deciding what to wear. Early summer has settled over Riverside like a damp hand. Makes me wonder how June will feel, and if I’ll still be here to find out.

I keep walking.

Six months and four days.

I’m not counting, though. Counting would imply expectation.

Six months passed. Then another day. Two. Three. And now today makes four.

Nothing from Clint.

I tell myself nothing is also an answer. Then I tell myself to stop being dramatic. That’s Don’s job. I’m the one that keeps calm and waits.

The studio comes into view before I’m ready for it. The downstairs windows are papered over from the inside. A dumpster sits near the curb, full of broken drywall and old trim. The door is propped open, and the inside sounds quiet.

For years, this building was proof that Renny believed in me. Belief can turn into storage if nobody ever touches it.

I cross when the traffic clears, stepping around a coil of extension cord and a stack of lumber near the entrance.

Fresh sawdust, old brick, paint primer. A building becoming something else.

I wipe my palms on my shorts, step inside, and prepare to collect whatever scraps of myself I left behind.

A woman stands just inside the open door with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a phone in her hand. She isn’t wearing construction clothes, but she looks more in charge than anyone I’ve ever seen. Late fifties, maybe. Blond hair pulled back, with silver coming through at the temples. Plain black shirt and jeans. No makeup I can see, no jewelry except a watch. Her face has the kind of stillness that makes me straighten before I know why.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi.” I step around a folded tarp and try not to inhale too much dust. “I’m Paul. The former owner.”

Something shifts in her expression.

“My sister told me you found some of my things upstairs?”

The woman’s gaze moves over my face.

“Good to meet you, Paul.”

I glance toward the back of the building, where a temporary plastic sheet hangs in place of a wall. “Should I talk to a contractor, or—”

“You need to talk to my son,” she says.