“I find if you toss enough money at things, you get what you want when you want it. I think the thing that might take the longest is the elevator since it isn’t a replacement but a full frame out and build. The company for that will be coming tomorrow, if you want to be here to hear about that from the horse’s mouth.”

“How many different crews will there be?”

“That should be it,” I said. “That’s Gav. He’s the contractor. If we need any other guys, he will handle it.”

“Do you come to the site every day during renovations?”

“It depends. If things are going smoothly, not usually. But if we keep hitting roadblocks, it makes sense to be here so no one has to wait a half an hour to an hour for me to get down here to check things out and make a decision.”

“Makes sense.”

“But Gav seems optimistic, so here’s hoping it’s one of the few projects without an issue.”

“That’d be nice. Opening in the fall seems ideal. People will be looking for inside places to go to again.”

“Exactly.” I glanced back at her as she took a sip, gaze moving to the fingers holding the cup, the knuckles all cut open, little red slivers running perfectly across them. “What’s this?” I asked, reaching for her wrist.

“What’s wha—oh,” she said, brows scrunching. Almost like she hadn’t even noticed the cuts. But who could overlook them? “Word to the wise,” she said, words stunted, like she was struggling to find them. “Be careful with box cutters.”

They didn’t look thin enough for cuts from a box cutter. But why else would she lie?

Suddenly, Teresa’s words came drifting back to me.

About there being no social presence for Saff.

Not even a business page.

But she had an office, a company.

Right?

I’d been so busy trying to get my hands on her that I’d forgotten all about that little twinge of distrust I kept feeling each time we interacted.

I either needed her to be more open to me, or I was going to need to actually investigate her. Whether I did it myself or hired someone else to do it.

“You should have something on these,” I said, thumb sliding across her fingers just under the cuts.

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Used to cutting yourself with box cutters?” I asked, brow raising.

“No,” she said, eyes going wide. Caught. That was the look of someone who was caught in a lie. But why lie about how your hands got cut up? What was she trying to hide? “No, I just… get hurt a lot. I’m, you know, kind of careless sometimes.”

That felt like it was possibly partially true.