Chapter 8: Hannah

The footsteps belonged to the night guard.

He stopped in the doorway with a flashlight, looked at the open drawer, and looked at Cullen's red eyes.

"Records room's off hours after nine," he said.

"Martin gave me the key," Cullen said.

"Then Martin can sign you out in the morning."

He said it kindly and walked away.

We took Hannah's folder with us, because Cullen would not leave without it.

Saturday came cold and bright.

The bakery on Damen had a green awning and a line out the door.

Inside, it smelled of butter and burnt sugar, and a woman in a flour-dusted apron was working the counter with her braid over one shoulder.

She was twenty-nine.

She had her brother's gray eyes and none of his ease.

She saw Cullen, and her whole face lit up.

Then she saw me, and the light went uncertain.

"You didn't say you were bringing someone," Hannah said.

"This is Dara. She works with me."

"She works at Fieldstone."

It wasn't a question.

I felt my stomach go tight.

"I'm an intern," I said. "I started this week."

"Then I'm sorry for you."

She said it warmly, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Sit. I'll bring you something. It's my break."

She came out from behind the counter with three cups and a plate of warm almond croissants.

We sat at a tiny table by the window.

I had never been so afraid of a croissant.

"Cullen told me you were a designer," I said.

"I was."

"What do you do now?"

"I put things in boxes and tell people good morning."

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