I felt Oliver’s quiet gaze on me. “Well, ol’ Jesse may have gone overboard this time,” he said. “Looks like we both know that he should have found a competent conservator to take on this work and given you something less … challenging. You’re being thrown to the wolves. Forgive me for saying this, all right? But you really shouldn’t do this,” he said sincerely. “I think you should just say no.”

“I can’t say no.” I let out my breath and looked toward the front windows of the foyer, my cheeks hot. “There’s more to it than that,” I said quietly. I looked over at him. “I was in prison,” I said, my voice still low, not wanting to be overheard by any of the workers in the building.

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up.

“It’s a long story.” I felt the alcohol monitor heavy on my ankle. “I didn’t shoot anyone or anything like that. But the thing is, Lisa was able to get me out on parole to do this work. If I don’t do it, I’ll have to go back to prison.” My eyes suddenly burned, surprising me. “I can’t go back.” I was whispering now. “I just can’t.”

He nodded, very slowly, brows furrowed above those vivid blue eyes. I wished he’d say something.

“I’m trying to read about how to do it—the restoration—online, but it’s overwhelming,” I continued. “Do you know any conservators I could call to give me some guidance? Jesse Williams left me money I can use to pay them.”

Oliver rubbed his hand across his chin, his gaze back on the mural. After a moment, he let out a long breath. “I have some experience,” he said finally. “I apprenticed to a conservator for a year after college. I don’t have a lot of time, with the insane deadline for this place, but I can try to give you some guidance.”

“Oh my God, Oliver!” It was as though a huge knot in my chest had loosened. I felt like hugging him, but stayed where I was. “I’ll … I’ll bake you brownies or do your laundry. Whatever you need.”

He half smiled, but I could see he wasn’t happy. “A simple thank-you will do,” he said.

“Thank you, then,” I said. “Please don’t tell the other guys here.” I glanced toward the front yard where I could picture Wyatt and Adam working on the stretcher. “I don’t want everyone to know I was in prison.”

“No problem,” he agreed. “It’s best if they think you know what you’re doing, anyway.” He pointed to the mural. “So, take a look at it,” he said. “What do you notice right off the bat?”

“That it smells terrible and the colors look like various shades of dirt. It’s filthy.”