okay.”
Come to think of it, Lena had never invited me to her house, either. Maybe all her questions were a way of deflecting attention.
I refilled water glasses and coffee cups while Mom counted the register. “I wish you’d invite Colin in,” she said, peering out the window. “It’s not right to make him sit outside.”
“He likes it. He says it’s too noisy in here.” Also, he had a better view, should trouble come calling.
She shook her head. “You should take him some coffee, at least. And something to eat. Brandied pear is the special today. Or a nice piece of mince pie. He’d like that.”
I grimaced. “Mom, nobody likes mince pie except the crowd from Shady Acres.” We did a steady business from the local retirement apartments just a few blocks away, both walk-in and delivery. I’d never seen anyone order mince pie who didn’t qualify for the senior discount.
“Shush.” She glanced around, worried she might be offending one of the Shady Acres crew, but the only person at the counter was a girl my age. “Take him some pie before we close up.”
For a split-second, I considered arguing. Pie wasn’t going to fix our problems. Instead, I asked, “Who sent the flowers?”
Next to the cash register was a vase filled with cheerful yellow-orange sunflowers, electric in the sleepy air of The Slice. She glanced over as she headed toward the kitchen. “You know, I’m not sure. They just got here. Aren’t they charming?”
I wiped clammy hands on my apron. “Was there a card?”
“I didn’t see one. I’ll see you at home. Remember, Mass tonight.”
Intent on the flowers, I didn’t hear her leave. I dug past the glossy green filler and oversized blossoms, but she was right—no card. I fumbled in my back pocket, pulling out the drawing I’d found. Suddenly, neither the sketch nor the bouquet seemed even remotely charming. Had someone broken into my locker and put the card in my bag? I thought back to Nick Petros, the oddly piercing look he’d given me during Journalism. Were they from him? He’d given me his business card, in plain view of the entire class. There was no reason for him to be cryptic.
And then it hit me. This morning. Running into the old guy by the library, dropping my bag, his insistence on handing it back to me. He could have hidden the drawing inside my bag then. I found exactly who I was looking for, he’d said.
He meant me. Somehow, the old man had slipped into St. Brigid’s unnoticed and found me. He’d found me here, too, but why? Was he an Arc? One of Billy’s associates? It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to send me a message.
The plate glass windows in the front of The Slice turned threatening—the perfect way to put me on display—and I fought the urge to call Colin and beg him to come inside. If the old man was an Arc, I’d do better to tell Luc. Colin would notify Billy, and I’d lose what little freedom I had. Worse, Colin would launch into bodyguard mode, slipping even farther away from me. If the guy was trying to show me I was being watched, it was old news. I’d had people watching me since Verity died.
I jammed the drawing into my back pocket again and forced myself to act naturally. Arc or Flat, I didn’t want to show any fear. Instead, I checked on my booths, refilling coffee and clearing plates. The girl at the counter was still there, picking at her apple pie. The ice cream had melted, and she pressed the fork into the crust, making a crust-apple-cream sludge.
“You want me to take that for you?”
The girl looked up at me, hazel eyes startled. “I guess I wasn’t hungry.”
“No problem. More coffee?” The sturdy white mug was empty, though I’d refilled it when I came in. Judging from the tremors in her hand ... “I’ve got decaf.”
“Was that your mom?” She tilted her head toward the kitchen.
“Yeah. Family business,” I said, trying to smile as exhaustion crept up on me.
“You’re Mo.”
I looked
Come to think of it, Lena had never invited me to her house, either. Maybe all her questions were a way of deflecting attention.
I refilled water glasses and coffee cups while Mom counted the register. “I wish you’d invite Colin in,” she said, peering out the window. “It’s not right to make him sit outside.”
“He likes it. He says it’s too noisy in here.” Also, he had a better view, should trouble come calling.
She shook her head. “You should take him some coffee, at least. And something to eat. Brandied pear is the special today. Or a nice piece of mince pie. He’d like that.”
I grimaced. “Mom, nobody likes mince pie except the crowd from Shady Acres.” We did a steady business from the local retirement apartments just a few blocks away, both walk-in and delivery. I’d never seen anyone order mince pie who didn’t qualify for the senior discount.
“Shush.” She glanced around, worried she might be offending one of the Shady Acres crew, but the only person at the counter was a girl my age. “Take him some pie before we close up.”
For a split-second, I considered arguing. Pie wasn’t going to fix our problems. Instead, I asked, “Who sent the flowers?”
Next to the cash register was a vase filled with cheerful yellow-orange sunflowers, electric in the sleepy air of The Slice. She glanced over as she headed toward the kitchen. “You know, I’m not sure. They just got here. Aren’t they charming?”
I wiped clammy hands on my apron. “Was there a card?”
“I didn’t see one. I’ll see you at home. Remember, Mass tonight.”
Intent on the flowers, I didn’t hear her leave. I dug past the glossy green filler and oversized blossoms, but she was right—no card. I fumbled in my back pocket, pulling out the drawing I’d found. Suddenly, neither the sketch nor the bouquet seemed even remotely charming. Had someone broken into my locker and put the card in my bag? I thought back to Nick Petros, the oddly piercing look he’d given me during Journalism. Were they from him? He’d given me his business card, in plain view of the entire class. There was no reason for him to be cryptic.
And then it hit me. This morning. Running into the old guy by the library, dropping my bag, his insistence on handing it back to me. He could have hidden the drawing inside my bag then. I found exactly who I was looking for, he’d said.
He meant me. Somehow, the old man had slipped into St. Brigid’s unnoticed and found me. He’d found me here, too, but why? Was he an Arc? One of Billy’s associates? It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to send me a message.
The plate glass windows in the front of The Slice turned threatening—the perfect way to put me on display—and I fought the urge to call Colin and beg him to come inside. If the old man was an Arc, I’d do better to tell Luc. Colin would notify Billy, and I’d lose what little freedom I had. Worse, Colin would launch into bodyguard mode, slipping even farther away from me. If the guy was trying to show me I was being watched, it was old news. I’d had people watching me since Verity died.
I jammed the drawing into my back pocket again and forced myself to act naturally. Arc or Flat, I didn’t want to show any fear. Instead, I checked on my booths, refilling coffee and clearing plates. The girl at the counter was still there, picking at her apple pie. The ice cream had melted, and she pressed the fork into the crust, making a crust-apple-cream sludge.
“You want me to take that for you?”
The girl looked up at me, hazel eyes startled. “I guess I wasn’t hungry.”
“No problem. More coffee?” The sturdy white mug was empty, though I’d refilled it when I came in. Judging from the tremors in her hand ... “I’ve got decaf.”
“Was that your mom?” She tilted her head toward the kitchen.
“Yeah. Family business,” I said, trying to smile as exhaustion crept up on me.
“You’re Mo.”
I looked
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