Olivia took the stairs down instead of the elevator.
Her mother was still asleep. The maid was humming softly in the kitchen. The apartment felt warm, familiar, steady.
Her chest did not.
She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her bag, and stepped out into the hallway.
By the time she reached the building entrance, the clouds overhead had thinned. A weak, pale sun broke through, turning the wet pavement a softer gray.
Vincent's car waited at the curb, just as he'd said.
He stood beside it, leaning lightly against the door, hands in the pockets of his coat. When he saw her, he straightened at once.
“Finished?" he asked.
“Yes," she said.
He studied her face for a second. “How bad was it?" he asked quietly.
She thought of the envelope on the coffee table. Her father's note. The way Ander
