She had managed to conquer her need for this place—now she indulged it only once a year, rarely more than that. She had planned to bring Velvet here, to let her understand the silence.

It might still be possible. It might still be necessary.

A knock on the door. She smiled slightly, though she felt no joy.

“Come in,” she said. The door creaked. “Come inside.”

Paolo hesitated in the doorway, looking nervously at the empty walls, the plain concrete floor, the drain like a dark eye in the center.

“Uh, no, ma’am, I just—uh—”

“Did you find her?”

Paolo’s silence gave her an answer. She closed her hand into a fist again.

“Unfortunate.” She considered the uneven bricks in the wall, the red brown that concealed so many stains. “Perhaps it’s time to have another session with Mr. Julian. He seemed so—eager.”

“He didn’t call.”

“Then call him. Tell him Velvet’s ready for him.”

“Uh—” Paolo straightened when she looked at him. His eyes went blank and businesslike. “Ma’am. Uh-huh.”

She turned her head back to contemplation of the wall.

“Close the door when you leave.”

Such a small sound, the closing of the door. She shut her eyes and listened to the metal snick of the lock closing, played and replayed it in her head like a favorite song.

She liked the quiet, late at night.

Chapter Twenty-four

Sol

“The note says she’s sorry,” Kelly said as she laid the jacket over the back of the couch. Sol threw her a look that slid off her face and landed on the jacket, stuck like Superglue. He hit the mute button on the TV, derailing the movie in mid-scream, and reached over to touch the fabric.

“Who says?” Eggplant wool, soft as a baby’s butt, rich as butter. He pulled it over to look at the label—small, discreet. His eyebrows went up like balloons.

“Velvet,” Kelly said. She sounded suspicious and pouty. “The hooker. Why’s a hooker sending you presents?”

“Think, sweetheart, think. She learned her lesson.” The lining was pure silk, dark blue. It felt like warm skin. “She learned it perfectly.”

“Well, try it on,” she sniffed, and flounced down in the leather armchair, crossed her legs, and swung her left foot impatiently. “Go on. See if I care.”

“Did she call?”

“Huh?” She looked up from examining the TV schedule. “Oh. No. Came with a note. In the pocket.”

There were, of course, no outside pockets in such a beautiful piece of work; he reached inside and found a plain white piece of paper, plain sloppy writing. Dear Sol, it said. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Consider this an apology. Sincerely, Velvet.

“Yes indeed,” he murmured, then crumpled the note and tossed it toward the kitchen wastebasket. “My god, yes. I had no idea she had such taste.”