Page 118 of Suite 7

I watch her type back. One-handed, quick, she composes these deflections faster now than she did weeks ago. That is not the kind of thing I should be tracking. I notice it anyway.

“What did you say?”

“That I’m already up, already have coffee, slow morning.” She sets the phone face-down on the counter. “She said she hopes mystery man is treating me well.” A pause. “She added a winky face.”

The guilt arrives in her expression before she’s finished the sentence. She’s not performing it, Vera doesn’t perform guilt. It moves through her face and she lets it, briefly, before she files it away. I cross to her. Pick up the almond croissant and hold it out.

She looks at it. Then at me.

“Kane. That is not going to fix⁠⁠—”

“I know. Eat it anyway.”

She takes it. Tearing the croissant apart like she’s finally given herself permission. Her face eases, fractionally.

“How did you know about the almond croissants,” she says.

“You mentioned them a while back.”

She stops chewing. “And you remembered?”

“Yeah.” I pour her coffee. Add the splash of cream, one packet of sugar, and set it beside her. “You said they were the best thing the bakery does and you only let yourself have one a month.”

She stares at the croissant in her hand. Then at me.

“You’re an unsettling man,” she says finally.

“Sit down, Vera.”

She sits. And we eat, her tearing the croissant apart with focused pleasure, me watching her steal pieces of my bagel when she thinks I’m not looking.

I let her take the bagel piece. She doesn’t know I’m letting her. That also seems relevant.

We’re still at the counter when my phone rings.

Not buzzes. Rings. I glance at the screen.

James. Weekend concierge.

I answer.

“Mr. Sinclair.” His voice is the careful register of a man who has worked this building long enough to know when to be tactful. “Your sister is here. She mentioned she knows you’re home. I wanted to call rather than send her up directly.”

“Give me two minutes, James. Then send her up.”

“Of course.”

I hang up. Look at Vera.

She has gone completely still on the barstool. Coffee mug halfway to her lips.

“Sloane,” I say.

She sets the mug down with a precision that is not her natural setting. Then slides off the barstool.

“Bedroom.” I say, already scanning the counter. Her mug in the wrong position. I move it to the cabinet. “Leave the door almost closed. She won’t go in.”

“You don’t know⁠⁠—“