I slid my phone from my pocket and texted Clara: You okay? Working until 8. Meet at 8:30? I wondered if she had found Peaches, if she had had a chance to ask her about the purse. After I handled all the orchids, Emily had me restock the boutique. She kept fiddling with her necklace, putting the end of the cross between her front teeth.

I was stacking jars of olive oil scrubs when I heard the big front door heave open. Emily greeted someone in her honeyed, saved-for-guests voice, and it made me smile, how quickly she could go from sardonic and arch to eager-seeming, sweet. “Checking in, sir?”

“I’m here to see someone, actually.” The jar I was holding slipped from my hand onto the floor. The packaging split and there was scrub all over the tile, bright yellow oil and gritty white paste. I couldn’t move to clean it up. I must be imagining it, I told myself. This stranger with Matthew’s voice.

“A guest at the spa?”

“Ah, no. A”—a hint of a chuckle—“colleague of yours.” That laugh. That’s when I knew it wasn’t only in my head. This new information screamed through my brain. “Lily Louten.”

How had he known where to find me? And why was he here at all?

“Just a moment. Let me see if she’s available.” Emily’s voice was cool and formal, which was how she sounded when she was mad. She stepped around the partition.

“A visitor for you?” she whispered. I knew that Matthew would be able to see our outlines through the frosted glass. A shadow performance. “Is that who you were waiting for all morning?”

“No!” I’d been keeping an eye out for Clara. She’d texted back to ask if she could meet me on my break. “I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know how he even found me.” My surprise must have been convincing. Her voice softened a little, and she dropped her hands from her hips.

“Well, what do you want to do? I can tell him you’re busy.”

“No, I’ll talk to him.”

Emily gave me another look then, like I had disappointed her, but I wanted to deal with this head-on. I stepped around her and made my way toward the desk.

I knew what his expression would be before I saw him: The look of mocking appraisal as he studied the lobby. Taking an orchid petal between his finger and thumb to see if it was real, the condescension in his surprise.

“Hey, Lil,” he said. He always shortened my name. My father hated when people did that. He said he hadn’t raised a daughter who was going to be small.

“What are you doing here, Matthew?” I forced myself to look him in the eye.

“You didn’t answer my messages.”

“I did, though. I told you to fuck off.”