“Mm,” Bowen admitted. “Didn’t have the kind of cameras we do now. Photographs today look crystal clear by comparison.”
Saga began to wonder how old that photograph could possibly be, but Bowen interrupted her train of thought.
“Speaking of photographs…” He bent down behind the desk and retrieved a medium-sized cardboard box full of albums, envelopes of photos, and a few framed ones as well. “Here you are.”
Sure enough, as she suspected, she found the picture her mother had been searching for, tucked into the side. She pulled it out and smiled, feeling a tug at her heart. Four familiar faces smiled back at her, the lights of the Dresden Christmas market twinkling behind them like starlight. “My mother will be happy. Well, whatever she has instead of happy, anyway.” She showed it to him. “She and my aunt wanted this for my grandmother’s memorial.”
Bowen’s brow crumpled, and for a moment, he seemed aged beyond his years. “I truly am sorry about your grandmother, Saga. She was a good woman.” There was an unexpected weight and sincerity to his voice rather than the professional platitude she’d expect from someone in his position.
Her throat tightened. “Did you know her well?”
He matched her sad smile, cleared his throat, and at last shook his head. “No. Not well, and all too briefly. But I did get to speak with her a few times when she was with Eira—and of course when I came by for the photos.” He stared off somewhere in the unseen distance. “Though we mostly spoke about funeral arrangements—she kept asking if there was anything she coulddo to help more.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I think I might have joked about how she’d already done so much that the only thing she could help with now was by letting me take care of her.” He frowned, and the lines on his face deepened. “I assure you, Miss Trygg, if I had known what was to come, I would never have… It seems in such poor taste now.”
Saga’s phone buzzed in her purse. “No, you were making a joke about getting business, not death. And I completely understand—youhad no way of knowing what would happen.” Another buzz. Someone was calling. “Did she take you up on it? Will we be seeing more of you in the next few days?” She reached into her purse to look at the phone.
Avery.
She must have found something out at Benjamin’s.
Saga silenced the phone, sent the call to voicemail, and put it back into her purse. The case could wait.
Bowen laughed half-heartedly. “No, no. Sounded like she’d taken care of all that years ago. She was a smart woman. Very down to earth.” He frowned. “I’m realizing I’m going to need to speak withherexecutor at some point soon. Eira did leave her things. I suppose who gets them now will be decided when Saoirse’s will goes to probate.”
“Is it ever weird?” she asked tentatively. “I mean, does it everfeelweird? Dividing up someone’s life into little pieces to be given away?”
Bowen considered her question. There was a tenderness in his mannerisms that she couldn’t quite place, but perhaps it was simply because the man dealt with the business of death nearly every day. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “On the one hand, at the end of the day, they’re just things, aren’t they? And even when someone is receiving a lot of things, you know it’s not going to fill the hole that losing a loved one left.” He lingered on that before continuing. “But also those are the objects that someone lived their life around, and in a way, it can feel like you’re able to keep that person with you, letting them live on through those objects. I like being able to make sure those keepsakes get to the right people—or at least the people that person thought they should go to.” He added a little wryly, “Unfortunately,in my opinion, those two aren’t always the same.”
“So you…are sort of the guardian of those keepsakes,” said Saga with a small smile. “Their legacy.”
Bowen tapped the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “Exactly,” he said with a wink. “Take your grandmother’s bone china tea set, for instance. She cherished it, and every time she used it, it was with care and love. I’m sure you can’t even look at it without thinking of her and your grandfather. Why I bet that would mean the world to you if she’d left it to you, wouldn’t it? Beautiful set, full of memories. It would be like sitting with her for a cuppa, I’d imagine.”
Saga could feel the cold chill of an uncomfortable realization start to set in. The nose tap. The wink. The tea set. Her throat felt dry. “Yeah… I imagine it would.” Mr. Bowen had no way of knowing about that tea set. Not unless he was the person Saoirse had brought it out for—and why would she bring it out for a man who was supposedly just Eira’s lawyer? She glanced back at the photograph, then to Bowen, realizing why exactly he did not look like the man in that photograph to her. She was seeing him as he truly was now, but the photograph had captured the image of his glamour. Perhaps if it weren’t for the glasses she might have seen it sooner, or if he hadn’t shaved his beard she might have recognized him, even if the photographs Saoirse had shown her were grainy. “I should probably go.” She set the photograph in the box and picked it up. “My mother will be wanting these as soon as possible.”
The phone in her purse vibrated again.
Bowen came around the desk to help her. “Are you all right?” She could see the Goff line in him now, particularly in the eyes: the shape, how they crinkled on the outside edge when he smiled—even the contour of his brow—it was nearly identical to Eira. And as he stepped up to her, his face concerned, she could clearly see beyond his glasses to the dark lashes rimming his eyelids. She couldn’t be certain without getting far closer, but they weren’t just dark—they were thick and layered. Like he was wearing mascara. Osian Goff had barely aged since the time of his last public photograph, and ever since he had utilized glamours to hide in plain sight.
“Yeah,” Saga managed weakly. “It’s just hard knowing she’s gone.”
The man nodded sympathetically. “Your hands are full. Let me get the door.”
Saga followed him to the door, but instead of it opening, she heard the click of a lock. “Mr. Bowen?” Her heart dropped into her stomach. She was so close.
“I slipped up, didn’t I?” he asked slowly.
“Pardon?” Her throat felt tight again. She could feel the phone in her purse vibrating insistently. She tried to carefully remove one hand from the box to reach for it.
“Getting sentimental about Saoirse, that was a mistake.” He turned to face her. He was still calm, but something unnerving had changed in his demeanor that Saga couldn’t place. “I shouldn’t have known about the tea set—not as just an estate lawyer, anyway.”
Saga swallowed as she fumbled with the flap on her purse. “Mr. Bowen, my mother is going to wonder where I am, I should really be going.”
Bowen took two steps toward her. “I’m afraid, Miss Trygg, that is no longer possible.”
Saga abandoned her attempt to get the phone and simply threw the box at him, sending albums, photos, and frames flying in his face. Desperately she ducked and ran to the door, turning the inside lock as quickly as she could. She felt a hand grab her hair and pull her back.
She flailed outward, trying to kick her assailant, but to no avail, and then an intense pain reverberated out from just below her right ear. She felt dizzy and nauseated. The world spun. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, and despite that, the world felt like it was getting farther and farther away; somewhere she was aware of her body crumpling on the carpet. She couldn’t tell if she was breathing, and the light was dimming to a small pinprick of color. She tried desperately to will that pin to grow again, for her consciousness to fight to stay present.
It was a losing battle, and the world went black.
