“Hello, again,” she said. “Mr. Laroche, isn’t it?”

“Miss Magnusson.”

“Don’t worry. No one’s chasing after me today,” she said. Then added, “He’s dead.”

He considered this for a moment and said, “That’s good news.”

“Someone moving out?” she asked, nodding toward the men hauling the sofa.

“The Humphreys,” he confirmed.

“The state senator and his wife?”

He nodded and gave her a knowing look. Yes, he remembered her altercation with the nasty woman, too. “It was all very sudden. Divorcing, I hear. Top floor?”

She grinned. “Yes. Top floor, please.”

When she got to Maria and Mathilda’s penthouse, they were waiting for her in the living room, smiling in their sparkling evening gowns and drinking champagne. Magnusson stock, Astrid thought as she eyed the black bottle. Had Lowe been here, delivering them booze?

“Darling girl!” Mathilda said and hugged her neck.

“We were so happy to hear that you’re staying in Hadley’s old apartment,” Maria said. “We’re practically neighbors, at least for a little while. Hadley swore us to secrecy, but you must tell us everything. Where’s the dashing Mr. Yeung?”

Astrid’s heart fluttered inside her chest. “He doesn’t know I’m still in town, actually. It’s a very long story . . .”

“And we have a lot of champagne,” Mathilda assured her with a wink. “Let me pour you a glass and you can tell us all about it.”

THIRTY-TWO

Nearly three weeks after Astrid’s departure, Bo strolled into Pier 26 and tipped his hat to Old Bertha the shark. As he hung up his coat, Winter’s dark head popped through the doorway.

“How did it go?”

“Signed the lease.”

Winter grinned. “Excellent.”

Nob Hill. He didn’t belong there. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure, but he damn well didn’t care. He was too busy being buoyed on a mix of excitement and queasiness. He’d done it, and there was no going back. When he’d first turned down Winter’s offer to live in the turret of the Magnusson house, they’d argued bitterly. But Bo wouldn’t concede. He had to stand on his own, even if it was a more difficult path.

And though he could afford the lease—mostly due to the Wicked Wenches offering him the state senator’s former cozy one-bedroom apartment on the floor below theirs for an impossibly low rent that no amount of arguing would change—he wasn’t used to plunking down that much money every month to live. Or any money at all, frankly. Selling his old apartment in Chinatown gave him a small cushion, but there were other expenses to consider, not to mention a dozen unknowns, which were busy churning up anxiety in his gut.

He slipped a hand inside his pocket and fingered the new apartment key, dazedly thinking of everything that was now his. A parlor that overlooked Huntington Park. A cozy dining room. A bedroom—spacious enough for a very big bed. A newly remodeled kitchen with electric appliances. And, best of all, a small library. An actual library! All of Bo’s books would fit on one bookcase, but he could buy more.

“It’s four blocks from Dr. Moon’s apartment,” he told Winter, thinking of the gray area between neighborhoods that Astrid had talked about their first night in the lighthouse. “And only a fifteen-minute walk from Aida’s shop.”

“Aida will be eager to see it,” Winter said. “Hadley stopped by the house earlier and they were talking about it. The two of them are getting awfully chummy, if you ask me,” he said with a lowered brow, as if that was something to be suspicious about.

“Probably just discussing Lowe and Hadley’s trip to Egypt,” Bo said. The couple was leaving by train tomorrow, heading out to the East Coast, where they’d board a ship bound for an Atlantic crossing. “Hadley’s unusually bubbly these days.”

“Maybe,” Winter said, but he didn’t seem convinced as he headed back out into the warehouse.

Bo was too happy to care. He needed to write Astrid a letter. Maybe a telegram. A long-distance telephone call would be too expensive, and he was afraid if he heard her voice, he’d be tempted to beg her to come home today. He wanted that to be her choice. Besides, there were too many other things that needed doing. Moving his things. Buying furniture.

A letter. That would be the best. He could suggest she send a telegram in return when she received it. That would give him a couple of weeks to get things settled.

He dumped the pile of delivered mail he’d been carrying onto Winter’s desk and sat down behind it, his mind abuzz with Too Many Things, when the warehouse receptionist knocked on the doorframe.

“Miss Fong to see you,” she said.

Bo’s hands stilled over the pile of mail. What in the world was Sylvia doing here? Before he could guess, she was escorted into the office.

“Hello, Ah-Sing,” she said brightly as she breezed beneath the stuffed shark.

“Sylvia,” he answered, standing up. “What’s wrong?”

She tugged on the tips of her gloves and sat down in a chair in front of the desk. “Why would there be something wrong? Can’t an old friend just pay a friendly visit? I heard you sold your apartment. You could have at least stopped by and told me.”

“I did stop by, actually,” he said, sitting back down behind the desk. “You weren’t home.”