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“What? I’m glad someone’s staying with you.” She lets the teasing fade and touches my arm. “You could still come home with me. You don’t have to sleep above the store tonight.”

“I know, but Murphy’s settled, and I want to be here if something else occurs to me about Connor’s note.”

Birdie studies the book in my hands. “You’ll call if you find anything else?”

“You’ll be my first call,” I promise.

“Even if it’s in the middle of the night?”

“Especially then. You’re awake half the night restoring furniture anyway.”

She squeezes my arm. “Just don’t start pulling the store apart by yourself.”

“I won’t.” I squeeze her hand. “Harris will take you home, and I’ll call in the morning even if we don’t find anything.”

Birdie comes around the table and hugs me. Her flannel smells faintly of sawdust and the citrus soap she keeps in her workshop. “Connor knew you’d find those books,” she says against my hair. “He knows you.”

I hold her tightly, then let go. “I’m beginning to think he knew I’d turn this whole store upside down.”

“He might be counting on it.” She wipes at one eye, then picks up her bag. “Call me tomorrow.”

I promise I will. Harris takes Birdie home and stays with her, while Cole remains outside the bookstore. I lock the rear door after they leave. When I turn back, Andrei is standing beside the table with Murphy leaning against his leg.

“Careful,” I tell Andrei. “He’s going to expect you to start paying rent.”

“He’s been following me around the store,” Andrei says.

“He’s trying to find out whether you brought food.”

Andrei scratches behind Murphy’s ear. “A sensible motive.”

He lifts the bag of cat supplies before I can reach it. I take Connor’s two books, turn off the lamps near the table, and lead them both toward the stairs.

Murphy trots past me at the top of the stairs and makes a circuit of the apartment. He sniffs the sofa, checks his food bowl, and eats as though he’s been away for weeks. Then he climbs onto his usual cushion and begins washing one paw.

I wish coming home were that simple for me.

Andrei sets the supplies beside the kitchen counter. His shoulders fill more of the narrow doorway than anyone else’s ever have, and the dark clothes that look at home in his vineyard office make my apartment seem even smaller. Books occupy most of the shelves and some of the floor. One of Birdie’s restored side tables sits beside the sofa whose cushions have never matched.

Andrei checks the front window, then moves to the rear one overlooking the alley. He tests the latch and looks down toward the guard below.

“You could tell me before you start checking my apartment,” I say, lifting my chin.

Andrei turns from the rear window. “Would you have told me not to?”

“Probably, but I might have appreciated being asked.” I pull out a chair and drape my jacket over it.

“You can tell me to stop,” he says.

“You’ve finished.”

“I haven’t checked the door.” He nods toward it but stays where he is.

“Then ask,” I tell him, folding my arms.

His mouth tightens as if he’s holding back an argument. After a moment, he says, “May I check the door?”

“Yes.” I set the books on my kitchen table. “See how easy that was?”