“Father.”

“Don’t look at me like I’m an imbecile,” he said grumpily. “I can see just fine now, you know. And I asked him to bring them to me—not the other way around.”

Impossible. How in the world . . . ? Her pulse spiked. “Are you saying you’ve had contact with him before this?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

“You’re doing a fine job of it now.”

“Now, now. Calm down and send those things away.”

She glanced in the direction he was looking. A couple of Mori were crawling out from the shadowed space behind a row of books.

Noel’s descent into the underworld might’ve removed the aging magic that the man had embedded inside her father, but it hadn’t severed her connection to the Mori. When she’d first realized this, she’d nearly destroyed her father’s kitchen in a tear-filled rage. But she’d come to terms with it and was now resigned to the fact that they were there to stay. Curse or blessing, it was hers to keep.

And her responsibility to control. Shutting her eyes, she quickly willed them away and took a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Go on.”

“The last time I saw him, Magnusson mentioned he was thinking of donating some of his finds to Berkeley, and I asked if I could see the ceramics.”

“How many times have you seen him?”

“We had unfinished business. Naturally I asked him to call on me.”

“What sort of unfinished business?”

“Payment, of course. Think of it this way—your mother got us into this mess when she took up with Noel. Therefore, using her family’s fortune to get us out of it was the least she could do for us.” Hadley was taken aback by her father’s frankness. He never spoke of her mother this way. Perhaps he was moving on, in his own crotchety way. “And a deal is a deal,” he finished. “The sum we originally agreed on wasn’t really for the amulet itself.”

“You paid Lowe?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“He was planning to cheat you.”

“Regardless, the amulet was found—”

“Mostly by me!”

“—and Noel is gone. Magnusson fulfilled his part of the bargain, so I fulfilled mine. I would’ve felt guilty not doing so. And the fact that he didn’t demand it made me feel better about him.” He nodded his chin toward her and spoke in a softer voice. “If I can look beyond his mistakes, perhaps you might consider doing the same. He’s gone to great lengths to ensure Levin didn’t taint your professional career with gossip.”

How, she didn’t know, but she’d be damned before she begged her father to tell her. “He has shown no interest in contacting me, so I don’t see what difference any of this makes.”

“Perhaps you should give him the benefit of the doubt,” he said, tucking his crutches beneath his arms. “And that’s all I’ll say on the matter. Your life is your own. But do keep in mind that no matter what fulfillment you’ll find inside these walls, it’s a poor excuse for failing to search for other fulfillments outside them. Don’t let your drive for success be your only happiness.”

Funny words coming from a man who’d done exactly that, but she watched him leave the office without comment—mostly because she was too upset to speak. All the hurt and grief she’d so carefully managed to keep locked up inside her head came rushing to the surface.

“Miss Bacall?”

She shook away her chaotic feelings and glanced up at the doorway to see the accounting secretary who was watching the front desk while Miss Tilly drank herself silly at the office party. The woman held out a bright orange tiger lily in her hand. “This came for you.”

Hadley silently cursed Miss Tilly for not informing the woman. “That goes in the trash.”

“The trash? But why?”

Because no matter how many times she told the delivery boy to stop bringing them, he insisted that he’d get in trouble at work, and didn’t she know who the Magnussons were? As if the family would come after him with machine guns if he failed to deliver a stupid flower. Ridiculous. Hadley sometimes wondered if Miss Tilly told the delivery boy to keep coming because she was sweet on him.

“Never mind,” she told the secretary, suddenly feeling more defeated than angry. Her father’s speech had confused her. Fifteen minutes ago, she’d been perfectly fine. Well, that was a lie. Not fine, but coping. Enduring. And yes, maybe occasionally grieving what she’d lost with Lowe, especially after she stopped hoping he might show up and at least try to explain why he’d lied to her.

But he didn’t.

Truth be told, she was probably more upset with him for giving up on her and what they’d had together than she was about the lying. After all, her father had lied to her, too, and they’d made amends. Did Lowe not think she was worth the effort?

A heavy sigh inflated her chest. She just didn’t think she could survive grieving for him all over again.

“What was the name of the florist?” she asked the secretary.

“Lunde Flowers.”

Maybe it was time to admit that it was truly over between them. And time to cut the last tie to him, once and for all.

She called a taxi and left the office early, giving the driver the florist’s name. The cab carried her south of the park, into the Fillmore District. Not more than a block or so from Adam’s shop. She should’ve known.

After asking the taxi driver to wait, she strode into the florist’s, a calm resignation propelling her steps, and rang a bell at the front counter.

A blond middle-aged woman with pink cheeks appeared from a door. “Good afternoon,” she said with a heavy Scandinavian accent. “How may I be helping you?”

“A couple of months ago, someone ordered flowers to be delivered to me at my office. A daily delivery of lilies—”

“Oh! Mr. Magnusson, ja.” She smiled. “You are at the museum.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The woman’s brow creased. “You have been getting your deliveries?”

“Yes, no problem there. I came because I want them stopped.”

“Why? Is the quality not good?”

“The quality is fine.” Hadley inhaled a calming breath. “Mr. Magnusson and I are not seeing each other anymore, and I suppose he forgot to come in here and halt the deliveries himself.”

“Oh, that is terrible. Poor man.”

For the love of God, not her, too. Was everyone cheering for Lowe today?

“He has lost so much,” the florist said solemnly. “First Mr. Goldberg, and now his sweetheart.”

Hadley tilted her head. “Did you say Mr. Goldberg? The watchmaker?”

“Ja. What a terrible tragedy. We are so sad for his passing.”

She stilled. Surely the woman’s message was lost in translation. “You do not mean he’s died, do you?”

The florist nodded. “He was killed in his shop. The police still do not find killer. You did not hear? It was in the newspaper.”

Hadley stood stiffly for several moments, desperately trying to steady her nerves and think rationally. “When did this happen?”

“A month ago.”

A month. That was . . . when she last saw Lowe. When he’d torn into her father’s backyard in a rage, and attacked Noel and—Oh, God! “What about the little girl? Did she? That is, I mean, was she killed?”

“No.” The florist intently shook her head, frowning at Hadley like she was a horrible person for even thinking such a thing.

Hadley blinked rapidly and backed away from the counter. “I have to go. Thank you.”

“Wait! What about the deliveries?”

“Never mind,” she mumbled, racing out of the shop.

Between labored breaths, she gave the taxi driver an address and clutched her handbag in her lap the entire way, her mind empty and bright with shock. When the cab rolled up in front of the Magnussons’ Queen Anne on Broadway, she nearly leapt out before he came to a full stop.

As she was racing to the front door, a familiar blond head peered from the driveway.

“Miss Bacall?”

“Astrid!” She changed directions and strode to the big gate at the side of the home. “Is Lowe home?”

Lowe’s sister scratched her ear and twisted her mouth. “Uh, well, not exactly . . .”

Winter’s assistant, Bo, walked up behind Astrid. “Afternoon,” he said, canting his head.

“I’m looking for Lowe,” she repeated.

An unspoken conversation passed between Astrid and Bo. She nodded, giving him some sort of permission.

Bo nudged the brim of his cap up with a knuckle. “Actually, the two of us were headed over to see him. If you’d like, you can ride along.”

She couldn’t even answer properly. She just nodded and ran to pay the cabbie. A couple of minutes later, she was in the backseat of a Pierce-Arrow limousine with Astrid, and Bo was driving them out of Pacific Heights.

Astrid tried to make small talk, but Hadley was too wound up to be anything more than the worst of conversationalists. An awkward, uncomfortable silence stretched out over long city blocks. It wasn’t until they passed through Russian Hill that Hadley realized she hadn’t asked where they were going.

When they started the long ascent up Filbert, snatches of memories resurfaced from the day she climbed Telegraph Hill with Lowe. Riding in the taxi with him from the Columbarium. The green and red parrots. Pretending to be a couple looking to purchase a house from that poor, bedraggled real estate agent selling the old Rosewood house. Gloom Manor, Lowe had called it.

And there it was, sitting near the top of the hill.

Trucks were parked at the curb. Workers were loading up debris and clinging to ladders, painting the trim. The twin windows on the third floor had been replaced.

Hadley stared at the window as the car slowed to park. “What’s happening here?”

“Believe me, I asked the exact same thing when I first saw this tumbledown shack of a house,” Astrid said, waving her hand dismissively at the Italianate Victorian home. “Lowe said I had no vision, and maybe he was right. Come on, we’ll take you inside.”

In a daze, she followed them down the sidewalk where she and Lowe had fought off the griffin, past workers who tipped their caps, and up the front stairs into the open door. It was so much brighter and warmer than she remembered. Electricity and heat, she realized dazedly. And she smelled fresh paint; the lewd graffiti was gone. So was the old furniture. A new Craftsman hall tree sat at the end of the foyer. And here, above a carved bench, a cap and two coats hung—one achingly familiar, and one small.

A deep voice several yards away made her throat tighten.

“No, you can’t go up the stairs. They’re working up there, sötnos.”

Lowe stood at the bottom of the staircase, tugging the hand of a small child in a red and white polka dot dress.

Hadley stood, rooted to the floorboards, as Astrid and Bo walked into the room. Spying them, a smile lit up the girl’s curl-framed face, and she forgot all about the stairs. Astrid bent low and rushed toward her.

“Stella-umbrella,” Astrid said in a silly voice, scooping the child up in her arms. “What have you been doing? Your hands are positively filthy.”

Stella held out her palms and wiggled her fingers, clearly delighted with herself.

“She tried to catch a wild parrot in the yard,” Lowe said. “I’m going to have to get someone to build a fence around . . .”

Lowe’s gaze connected with Hadley’s.

A strange heat washed over her skin. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or run.

“We brought someone to see you,” Bo said to Lowe. “Astrid, why don’t we take Stella outside and see if we can find another parrot.”

Hadley concentrated on breathing as they led the girl outside. Lowe stood where he was, several feet away. His umber suit was the same shade as the new wood stain on the staircase, and he wore his brown leather riding boots. A memory of her crouching to untie those crisscrossing laces added more kindling to the emotional chaos threatening to burn down her heart.

“Hello, Hadley.”

“Hello, Lowe.”

Her mouth went dry. There were too many things she wanted to say at once, but she couldn’t remember what any of them were. A month without him, and it was as if her dumb heart didn’t care about all the pain he’d caused. She had to fight the urge to run to him and press herself against his solid chest so that she could feel his arms around her, his steady heartbeat under her cheek. She finally pretended to look around the room in order to gather her wits about her. “You bought Gloom Manor,” she finally managed, trying to sound normal.

“I did,” he answered. “My brother helped to rush the sale through the bank. They were eager to get rid of it. Haunted houses aren’t desirable properties, apparently.”