Avery acknowledged this with a half-nod, her attention homing in on the notebook in Saga’s hand. “Were you able to get all of that?”
“Every word,” Saga raised the pad for Avery’s inspection.
The confusion that flooded over the handsome face was endlessly satisfying. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but your handwriting is absolutely atrocious. I can’t make out any of this.”
“It’s shorthand.” Saga laughed.
“Respectfully, I’ve seen far smaller hands write infinitely more legibly.”
The doors dinged, and Saga led Avery inside, still fantastically amused by the misunderstanding. “I meant I wrote in shorthand.” She pressed the button for the eighth floor. “Stenographers and secretaries have used itfor centuries. It’s a way of writing so you can copy a lot of information accurately without having to write every letter. See?” She pointed to a line in her notes and quoted. “They would have worked it out, Inspector. They always did. God just didn’t have the time, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe any God had much to do with what happened to Valentina LaRosa that night,” Avery answered grimly. She inspected the notes again in a new light and smiled. “I’d heard of a system like this. I’d even read John Willis’s book on the matter, but this looks so different.”
“Well, there are different systems,” Saga explained. “This is Gregg shorthand. I liked it because it didn’t matter what I was writing with as much, I could eke out a passable version of it for my notes. Even with a crayon once.”
“I would very dearly like to learn it,” Avery confessed, handing the book back to her. “You are a growing wonder, Saga.”
She could feel her cheeks burn, but she just smiled. “As are you, InspectorHemlock.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. I just realized I hadn’t known your surname until just now.”
“Really?” She was genuinely surprised. “I would have thought your aunt would have told you.”
“No, just that your tab was being picked up by Blackthorn. We’d all seen you by then.”
“Odd,” Avery observed.
“Is it? You don’t knowmysurname.”
“It’s Hudson.”
“It’s Trygg.”
The doors slid open to the eighth floor with another punctuated ding, but neither woman moved.
“Saga Trygg,” Avery repeated softly, curiously.
“My dad was from Oslo.” The doors began to close and Saga stretched her hand out to reset them before motioning for Avery to exit first.
Avery’s attention fixated on the numbers of each apartment as they passed. “So, your grandmother is a Hudson—”
“My grandmother is anO’Donnell, mygrandfatherwas a Hudson,” Saga interjected her correction. “My mother and aunt are also Hudsons.”
Avery’s head bobbed as she got a clearer picture of this family tree. “Your uncle is a Lahiri and you’re a Trygg.”
Saga bowed her head in a mock curtsey. “We’re a family of proud families.”
“So it would seem.” There was a moment, brief, but unmistakable, that Avery appeared envious of the idea. She took a deep breath, focusing on the door now in front of them. “Are you ready?”
Saga held up her pad and pencil. “Once more unto the breach.”
Avery stepped forward and gave two firm knocks.
Finally the door opened and a woman in her early thirties peered out at them. She was fair-haired and tall with a ballerina’s build and a porcelain complexion. She was dressed suitably cozy for a Sunday afternoon, wearing a pink woolly jumper over black leggings. Her green eyes regarded them with a skittish mix of confusion and perhaps even fear.
“Miss Walker?” Avery addressed the woman in that same calm disarming way that felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket.
