“Most of the flooring can be saved with sanding and refinishing. But some must be replaced.” He kicked at a square of plywood he’d nailed to a hole in the second-floor landing.

Sydney merely nodded, asking questions only when they seemed intelligent. Most of the workers were gone, off to cash their week’s paychecks. The noise level had lowered so that she could hear muted voices behind closed doors, snatches of music or televised car chases. She lifted a brow at the sound of a tenor sax swinging into “Rhapsody in Blue.”

“That’s Will Metcalf,” Mikhail told her. “He’s good. Plays in a band.”

“Yes, he’s good.” The rail felt smooth and sturdy under her hand as they went down. Mikhail had done that, she thought. He’d fixed, repaired, replaced, as needed because he cared about the people who lived in the building. He knew who was playing the sax or eating the fried chicken, whose baby was laughing.

“Are you happy with the progress?” she asked quietly.

The tone of her voice made him look at her, something he’d been trying to avoid. A few tendrils of hair had escaped their pins to curl at her temples. He could see a pale dusting of freckles across her nose. “Happy enough. It’s you who should answer. It’s your building.”

“No, it’s not.” Her eyes were very serious, very sad. “It’s yours. I only write the checks.”

“Sydney—”

“I’ve seen enough to know you’ve made a good start.” She was hurrying down the steps as she spoke. “Be sure to contact my office when it’s time for the next draw.”

“Damn it. Slow down.” He caught up with her at the bottom of the steps and grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong with you? First you stand in my room pale and out of breath. Now you run away, and your eyes are miserable.”

It had hit her, hard, that she had no community of people who cared. Her circle of friends was so narrow, so self-involved. Her best friend had been Peter, and that had been horribly spoiled. Her life was on the sidelines, and she envied the involvement, the closeness she felt in this place. The building wasn’t hers, she thought again. She only owned it.

“I’m not running away, and nothing’s wrong with me.” She had to get out, get away, but she had to do it with dignity. “I take this job very seriously. It’s my first major project since taking over Hayward. I want it done right. And I took a chance by…” She trailed off, glancing toward the door just to her right. She could have sworn she’d heard someone call for help. Television, she thought, but before she could continue, she heard the thin, pitiful call again. “Mikhail, do you hear that?”