“Oh, that is terrible. Poor man.”
For the love of God, not her, too. Was everyone cheering for Lowe today?
“He has lost so much,” the florist said solemnly. “First Mr. Goldberg, and now his sweetheart.”
Hadley tilted her head. “Did you say Mr. Goldberg? The watchmaker?”
“Ja. What a terrible tragedy. We are so sad for his passing.”
She stilled. Surely the woman’s message was lost in translation. “You do not mean he’s died, do you?”
The florist nodded. “He was killed in his shop. The police still do not find killer. You did not hear? It was in the newspaper.”
Hadley stood stiffly for several moments, desperately trying to steady her nerves and think rationally. “When did this happen?”
“A month ago.”
A month. That was . . . when she last saw Lowe. When he’d torn into her father’s backyard in a rage, and attacked Noel and—Oh, God! “What about the little girl? Did she? That is, I mean, was she killed?”
“No.” The florist intently shook her head, frowning at Hadley like she was a horrible person for even thinking such a thing.
Hadley blinked rapidly and backed away from the counter. “I have to go. Thank you.”
“Wait! What about the deliveries?”
“Never mind,” she mumbled, racing out of the shop.
Between labored breaths, she gave the taxi driver an address and clutched her handbag in her lap the entire way, her mind empty and bright with shock. When the cab rolled up in front of the Magnussons’ Queen Anne on Broadway, she nearly leapt out before he came to a full stop.
As she was racing to the front door, a familiar blond head peered from the driveway.
“Miss Bacall?”
“Astrid!” She changed directions and strode to the big gate at the side of the home. “Is Lowe home?”
Lowe’s sister scratched her ear and twisted her mouth. “Uh, well, not exactly . . .”
Winter’s assistant, Bo, walked up behind Astrid. “Afternoon,” he said, canting his head.
“I’m looking for Lowe,” she repeated.
An unspoken conversation passed between Astrid and Bo. She nodded, giving him some sort of permission.
Bo nudged the brim of his cap up with a knuckle. “Actually, the two of us were headed over to see him. If you’d like, you can ride along.”
She couldn’t even answer properly. She just nodded and ran to pay the cabbie. A couple of minutes later, she was in the backseat of a Pierce-Arrow limousine with Astrid, and Bo was driving them out of Pacific Heights.
Astrid tried to make small talk, but Hadley was too wound up to be anything more than the worst of conversationalists. An awkward, uncomfortable silence stretched out over long city blocks. It wasn’t until they passed through Russian Hill that Hadley realized she hadn’t asked where they were going.
When they started the long ascent up Filbert, snatches of memories resurfaced from the day she climbed Telegraph Hill with Lowe. Riding in the taxi with him from the Columbarium. The green and red parrots. Pretending to be a couple looking to purchase a house from that poor, bedraggled real estate agent selling the old Rosewood house. Gloom Manor, Lowe had called it.
And there it was, sitting near the top of the hill.
Trucks were parked at the curb. Workers were loading up debris and clinging to ladders, painting the trim. The twin windows on the third floor had been replaced.
Hadley stared at the window as the car slowed to park. “What’s happening here?”
“Believe me, I asked the exact same thing when I first saw this tumbledown shack of a house,” Astrid said, waving her hand dismissively at the Italianate Victorian home. “Lowe said I had no vision, and maybe he was right. Come on, we’ll take you inside.”
In a daze, she followed them down the sidewalk where she and Lowe had fought off the griffin, past workers who tipped their caps, and up the front stairs into the open door. It was so much brighter and warmer than she remembered. Electricity and heat, she realized dazedly. And she smelled fresh paint; the lewd graffiti was gone. So was the old furniture. A new Craftsman hall tree sat at the end of the foyer. And here, above a carved bench, a cap and two coats hung—one achingly familiar, and one small.
A deep voice several yards away made her throat tighten.
“No, you can’t go up the stairs. They’re working up there, sötnos.”
Lowe stood at the bottom of the staircase, tugging the hand of a small child in a red and white polka dot dress.
Hadley stood, rooted to the floorboards, as Astrid and Bo walked into the room. Spying them, a smile lit up the girl’s curl-framed face, and she forgot all about the stairs. Astrid bent low and rushed toward her.
“Stella-umbrella,” Astrid said in a silly voice, scooping the child up in her arms. “What have you been doing? Your hands are positively filthy.”
Stella held out her palms and wiggled her fingers, clearly delighted with herself.
“She tried to catch a wild parrot in the yard,” Lowe said. “I’m going to have to get someone to build a fence around . . .”
Lowe’s gaze connected with Hadley’s.
A strange heat washed over her skin. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or run.
“We brought someone to see you,” Bo said to Lowe. “Astrid, why don’t we take Stella outside and see if we can find another parrot.”
Hadley concentrated on breathing as they led the girl outside. Lowe stood where he was, several feet away. His umber suit was the same shade as the new wood stain on the staircase, and he wore his brown leather riding boots. A memory of her crouching to untie those crisscrossing laces added more kindling to the emotional chaos threatening to burn down her heart.
“Hello, Hadley.”
“Hello, Lowe.”
Her mouth went dry. There were too many things she wanted to say at once, but she couldn’t remember what any of them were. A month without him, and it was as if her dumb heart didn’t care about all the pain he’d caused. She had to fight the urge to run to him and press herself against his solid chest so that she could feel his arms around her, his steady heartbeat under her cheek. She finally pretended to look around the room in order to gather her wits about her. “You bought Gloom Manor,” she finally managed, trying to sound normal.
“I did,” he answered. “My brother helped to rush the sale through the bank. They were eager to get rid of it. Haunted houses aren’t desirable properties, apparently.”
She tried to force a casual smile, but her mouth was having trouble remembering how. “You don’t say.”
“It’s not actually haunted, in case you were wondering.” He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and took a few lazy steps in her direction. “Aida has given it her all-clear approval. So I suppose all that ghost graffiti was wishful thinking.”
A part of her wanted to smile, but she quickly sobered up and remembered the panic that had brought her to him today. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said in a near whisper.
His head dropped, and he looked down at her with bright blue eyes. Two deep lines crossed his forehead. “Hadley . . .”
“You should’ve told me. I didn’t know.” The words tumbled out so fast. She blinked away tears. “I went to the florist in Fillmore and she told me Adam was dead and I couldn’t believe it. I went straight to your house—”
“Hey, hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. It’s terrible. Don’t you see? I went to Adam’s shop. I went to talk with him because I was angry at you for lying to me, and I wanted to know the truth. I thought I was being careful—”