“It’s her, isn’t it?” said Vanessa.
Itwasher. Didi. My grandmother. But not the Didi I knew. This photo showed her years earlier. She stood in front of an old building without panes in the windows, with bricks and debris around her feet. A crooked sign hung over the door, written in French.
“What is this?” I took the photo from Vanessa and studied the details. It was the same old velvet jacket she’d said brought her luck. The same smile. Different hair. “Why would he have a photo of her?”
“Maybe he knew her?” Vanessa moved to my side as the greeting bell chimed.
I should have checked who’d entered, but all I could do was stare at my grandmother’s face. “She loved to tell stories. If she’d had Russian friends, surely she would have mentioned them?”
Heavy footsteps approached, and the light dimmed as Galahad blocked out the sun. “Are you all right?”
He was close. So close. His jaw clenched, and the frown from earlier was even deeper. But his eyes. There was softness in them. Was it worry? Concern?
For some reason, I showed him the photo. “He dropped this. It’s…”
He held out his hand. “May I?”
I handed it over. “Did he say anything about what he wanted?”
“No, and I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” He was intense, exactly like Vanessa had said. Intense and… what? Domineering? Protective? “The photo. Is it a relative?”
I walked to the wall, and when he joined me, I pointed at the framed image that had started everything. “My grandmother grew up in London and moved here in the sixties.”
Galahad held the tattered photo next to the framed one. “This looks like France. World War II era.”
France? Had she been traveling?Wouldshe have traveled there during the war? Wouldn’t she have been safer in London? “How do you know? From the debris?”
He turned the photo over and furrowed his brow. “Delphine? Was that her name?”
“What?” I moved closer, tilting my head to read the one word on the back: Delphine. Delphine? “Her name was Diana. I called her Didi.”
Was Delphine a place? A name? Someone who’d been with her?
Itwasher, wasn’t it? She didn’t have a doppelganger, did she?
He returned the photo to me. “What time does this place close?”
“Close?” The abrupt change of subject threw me. “Four. Why?”
The bell chimed, and I glanced around Galahad. Tristan stalked in, more irritated than I’d ever seen him, other than when he’d first met my best friend. Some customers averted their eyes, whispering to each other or pretending to be absorbed in their phones and laptops, while others stared.
But this is going to end up all over social media.
The only bad press is no press?
Brenton was small enough that people knew Tristan and his mother, and they knew what had happened to Izzy in the spring. Instead of judging him or his old friends as being scary ex-military types, I was pretty sure people understood they were a bit safer with these men around.
Tristan rejoined us, running his hands through his hair. To Galahad, he said in a quiet voice, “He’s gone. Headed down the block and called a rideshare.”
“Mm,” Galahad practically grunted. “Your name’s Grace, right?”
I nodded.
“Will you be alone at any point today?”
