Chapter 8: The Lawyer's Door

Rowan's POV

She fell asleep on my couch with her shoes still on.

I took them off her, because I couldn't stand to leave them, and put a blanket over her.

She didn't wake up.

She slept the way people do when they have not been allowed to for a long time.

I sat on the floor with my back against the radiator and watched her for longer than I should have.

Her hair had come loose on the pillow.

There was a pale mark on her palm where the glass had gone in, and it was gone now.

I had not asked about it, and I wasn't going to ask tonight.

Four years of tea cups had taught me one thing about Eleanor Clifford.

She didn't take anything from anyone unless she had decided to.

At six I made coffee as quietly as I could.

At six-thirty I took Richard Willoughby's text and my one clean shirt and went to Midtown.

I left her a note on the counter with the key on top.

I didn't tell her where I was going.

I'm not proud of that.

The lawyer's office was on the twenty-second floor of a gray building.

A receptionist with silver glasses looked at my jacket, which still had soil on the cuffs.

"I'm Rowan, the gardener," I said. "Mr. Willoughby's lawyer texted me."

She typed something and waited.