POV: Amelia
The fabric house was smaller than I expected, tucked behind a printing shop on a street I’d driven past a hundred times without noticing. Marchetti Textiles.
Renata had written the name on the same envelope as everything else, like she was handing me a string of breadcrumbs and trusting me to walk the path myself.
A man in his fifties came out to meet me, sleeves rolled up, a measuring tape looped around his neck like a scarf.
“You’re the Blackwood woman,” he said, not quite a question.
“Amelia Quinn. I go by Quinn for this.”
He raised an eyebrow like that surprised him. “Renata called ahead. Said you had some sketches worth looking at.” He led me back through bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling, into a small office that smelled like starch and coffee. “Let’s see them
