Chapter 7: Lot One

On Tuesday afternoon, in front of a film crew of seven, I walked into Amber's studio and took back my reading chair.

Hattie held the door.

I had left Rhys's jacket folded on his porch rail that morning, washed, with a note that said: Tuesday, as agreed.

He had texted a single line back from his bed: You didn't have to be on time.

I had.

The studio sat on the top floor of a converted warehouse in the Seaport, all white brick and ring lights.

A banner hung across one wall: A LIBRARY RESCUED.

Under it, on a low platform, someone had arranged my desk with my lamp on it and my chair beside it, tilted at the camera.

A girl with a clipboard was adjusting the lamp.

Two women in matching beige coats sat on a sofa, filming themselves filming the set.

Amber stood in front of a monitor in a cream blazer, directing.

"And when she says 'Lot One,' you pan up slowly. Slowly. Like it's a baby."

Then she saw me.

"Oh," she said, and the room turned.

"Hi," I said.

The guard from Saturday stepped away from the wall.

He was big and quiet, with a company lanyard around his neck that read HARBOR PROTECTIVE.

He put himself between me and the platform.

"Ma'am, you can't be here."

"Last Saturday," I said, loudly enough for the ring lights, "you twisted my arm behind my back at a party I didn't invite you to."

His eyes went to Amber.

"It's on video," I said. "From across the street. The guards' faces, the lanyards, all of it."

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