She considers, after directing another glare at Endsley, who is looking at his feet, and gives a nod of acquiescence.

“Fine. But first, any progress today, Nolan?”

N. E. Endsley is braver than I. He pulls a few folded pieces of paper from his pocket, shoving them into Valerie’s outstretched palm without looking at her. She chooses to ignore the attitude.

“I expect more from you tomorrow” is all she says.

It’s a dismissal. Endsley turns sharply on his heel and stalks past me and Alex, toward the large wooden door, unlocking it and wrenching it open so hard I’m worried it will come unhinged. Without turning he says, “Alex. Walter.”

The New York Times described him as “enigmatic.” The Washington Post called him “complex.” And this was before he stopped giving interviews and making public appearances, which happened fairly soon after the publication of his first book.

If my mind were focused only on the wonder of meeting the famously reclusive N. E. Endsley, I might describe him as petulant at best and standoffish at worst. I probably would have spoken up, explained that Jenna was my friend and that we had bonded over his books, his words.

Except, no matter how far I drive, or whom I meet, everything will always come back to Jenna.

Jenna is not here.

Wally is the only one who has moved to carry out the command, happily sitting on his haunches and panting beside Endsley’s clearly expensive jeans in the doorway. Alex looks split between following Endsley and staying to reason with the incensed Valerie.

“Come on, Alex.” Endsley’s tone is expectant. He finally turns, frustrated. His eyes meet mine, noticing me for the first time. I force myself to hold his gaze, blue on blue, and his eyes widen slightly.

He’s not pretty like Alex; nobody would mistake them for brothers, though their hair is almost identical in color. Endsley’s is a bit curlier, twisting around his ears and toward the collar of his T-shirt, but everything else about him is fair—his skin, his eyes, his lips. I’ve seen this face in so many stylized portraits, namely the small author photo on the back flap of his books, but the reality is sobering.

His nose is slightly crooked; it leans a little to the right side of his face. His cheekbones—sharp and shadowy in his professional photos—don’t look like they might cut through glass without the aid of professional lighting. His shoulders are not at all proud and stalwart, as they appear at the end of the Orman Chronicles. Instead, they are slightly hunched and deign to make the great N. E. Endsley a mere mortal.

He is staring, and it’s the most eye contact I’ve managed in weeks. My cheeks warm as something inside me both fortifies and breaks. The anger I felt after the festival floods away and leaves me with one simple need: to know if he remembers Jenna, too.