Run: 2026-09-23-01M37J0DN98RE4EE428WRX0X18

The third deadbolt stuck, as it always did. Rory put her shoulder against the door, turned the key, and opened it to find Lucien Moreau on Eva’s landing with blood on his cuff. For a moment she saw only the cuff. White cotton, a dark stain spreading from beneath his charcoal sleeve. Then she saw the rest of him: the slicked-back platinum hair damp with rain, the ivory handle of his cane braced against the floor, the mismatched eyes fixed on her face. “Rory,” he said. She gripped the edge of the door. “How did you find me?” “May I come in?” “No.” His gaze flicked past her into the flat, then down the stairs. The curry house below had shut an hour ago, but its extractor fan still rattled through the walls. On the street, a car door slammed. “I wouldn’t be here if I had another choice,” he said. “That makes two of us.” She started to close the door. He didn’t stop her. That, more than anything, made her pause. Lucien had a way of turning refusal into negotiation, but tonight he simply stood there, one hand around his cane, the other hanging stiffly at his side. A drop of blood fell from his sleeve onto Eva’s welcome mat. “Oh, for God’s sake.” Rory stepped back. “Come in before you bleed on the stairs.” Lucien crossed the threshold without a word. She shut the door and slid all three deadbolts home. By the time she turned, he was studying the flat: the towers of books beside the sofa, the notes pinned over the kitchen counter, the scrolls Eva insisted were better kept out of tubes. Ptolemy sat atop the bookshelf, tail switching as he stared down at their visitor. “Eva’s out,” Rory said. “If you’ve come for her, you’ll have to try again.” “I came for you.” The words landed harder than they should have. Rory walked past him to the kitchen alcove and pulled open a drawer. “Sit down.” “I’m all right.” “You’re dripping blood on a research note Eva spent three weeks translating. Sit.” He lowered himself onto the sofa. His cane rested against his knee, its ivory handle catching the yellow light. Rory found the first-aid tin behind a stack of takeaway menus. She fetched a bowl of water, a clean tea towel, and the kitchen scissors. When she came back, Lucien was looking at a photograph propped against the mantel: Rory and Eva at seventeen, windblown and laughing on a Cardiff beach. Rory set the bowl down. “Jacket off.” His amber eye met hers. The black one gave nothing away. “You’ve developed a commanding manner.” “I’ve always had one. You just used to listen.” He took off his jacket with care. The cut ran along his left forearm, shallow at one end and ugly at the other. His shirt had stuck to it. “That needs stitches.” “I know.” “Then why are you here?” “Because the person who did it may be on his way.” Rory stopped with the scissors in her hand. “Here?” “I lost him near Whitechapel. I don’t know if he saw where I went.” She looked toward the door. Three deadbolts, a narrow stairwell, and a cat who considered mice a personal insult. None of it seemed much protection. “Who is he?” “A man who works for someone I disappointed.” “Helpful.” She cut the shirt away from the wound. Lucien hissed through his teeth. “Does this have anything to do with me?” He didn’t answer quickly enough. Rory put the scissors down. “Lucien.” “Yes.” She stood. “You need to tell me what’s going on.” “I will. But first, please, finish that. He put something on the blade.” She looked at the cut again. The skin around it had begun to darken, faint branching lines creeping toward his elbow. She cleaned the wound while he told her a man had come looking for a ledger. “A ledger,” she repeated. “What kind?” “The kind that records debts people would rather deny.” “And you have it?” “No. I helped its owner disappear. They think she gave it to me.” Rory poured antiseptic over the worst of the cut. Lucien’s hand closed on the sofa cushion. “If it isn’t a poison I’d know,” she said, “tell me what to do.” “Keep cleaning it. The edge carried a binding. Once the blood is gone, it should stop spreading.” It was an explanation she could act on, at least. Rory wiped until the cloth came away clean. The dark lines ceased their slow advance. She let out a breath and took a bandage from the tin. “Why come to Eva’s flat?” “Because he already knows where I live.” “That wasn’t my question.” Lucien watched her wind the bandage around his arm. “I came to warn you. Your name is in the ledger.” Her fingers stilled. “How?” “I haven’t seen it. The woman I helped told me enough to know you were mentioned.” “Did she tell you why?” “No.” A laugh escaped her, sharp and joyless. “You could have led with that instead of bleeding all over the mat.” “I intended to. Then you opened the door.” She fastened the bandage and sat back on her heels. He was too close. Even after six weeks, she recognized the scent of rain on his coat and the clean, faint spice of his cologne. He had once kissed her in the back seat of a cab stalled in traffic, his thumb resting against the small scar on her left wrist as if he could learn its history by touch. The memory came uninvited and stayed. Six weeks ago, she had gone to his office because he’d promised to show her the file on Evan. Lucien had found out her ex was asking after her in London, and Rory wanted to know what he knew. Instead, she’d arrived in time to hear Lucien telling another man that Aurora Carter was “not an issue.” When she confronted him, he had said she was safer if she kept out of it. He would give her what she needed when the danger had passed. She’d heard that kind of promise before, from Evan, whenever he wanted her to stop asking questions. She had walked out. Lucien hadn’t followed. Now he sat on Eva’s sofa with his ruined sleeve in his lap. “Do you remember what you said to me?” she asked. “Yes.” “I don’t think you do.” “I told you to leave it alone.” “You said you would decide what I needed to know.” His face tightened. “I was wrong.” Rory had been prepared to argue. The apology left her holding a roll of bandage with nowhere to put it. He looked at her left wrist. His gaze stayed there for a beat, then returned to her face. “The man in my office had business with Evan. I didn’t know how much he’d told him about you. I said you weren’t an issue because I wanted him to stop asking. Then you came in, and I couldn’t explain it in front of him.” “You could have called later.” “Yes.” Lucien glanced down at his bandaged arm. “I could have.” Rain ticked against the window. Ptolemy jumped from the bookshelf to the table, sniffed Lucien’s discarded jacket, and sat squarely on it. Rory took the stained tea towel to the sink. “So why didn’t you?” “I thought you would be better off without me near you.” “That was my decision to make.” “I know.” He paused. “I didn’t know it then. Not well enough.” She rinsed the towel under cold water. Pink ran into the drain. In the dark window above the sink, she could see him sitting behind her, one hand open on his knee. She had missed him. It made her angry all over again. She’d missed their long walks after her delivery shifts, the ridiculous precision with which he remembered her tea order, the way he let silence settle when she needed to think. She’d missed being able to tell him something difficult without having to make it easier for him to hear. “I stayed angry,” she said to the window. “I still am.” “You should be.” “I didn’t ask for permission.” “No.” His voice softened. “You never have.” A scrape sounded below the flat. Rory turned off the tap. Lucien rose at once, but she held up a hand. They listened. Footsteps climbed the stairs, stopped outside Eva’s door, and moved on to the floor above. A lock clicked. Rory realized she’d been holding her breath. Lucien had his hand on the cane’s ivory handle. He eased it away. “I won’t stay longer than I have to,” he said. “You can barely button your own cuff.” “With practice—” “Don’t.” She set the towel on the counter. “Don’t turn this into a joke so I’ll stop asking you questions.” He was quiet. “Can they find me through this ledger?” “I don’t know. I’m going to find out.” “Then I’m coming with you.” “No.” He caught himself. “I mean—I don’t want you put in danger because of me.” “I’m already in it, according to you.” “Yes.” “Then tell me what you know, and let me decide what to do with it.” Lucien looked at the deadbolts, at Eva’s crowded shelves, at Rory. “All right.” She came back to the sofa but didn’t sit. “And when you find out what my name’s doing in that book, you tell me first. Not after you’ve decided which parts I can bear.” “I will.” “Even if it’s bad.” “Especially then.” Ptolemy abandoned the jacket and rubbed against Lucien’s trouser leg. Lucien looked down, plainly uncertain whether touching the cat required permission. Rory nearly smiled. “You can stay until morning,” she said. “Eva won’t mind if I explain.” “Rory—” “I said you can stay. I haven’t forgiven you.” “I understand.” She sat beside him, leaving a few inches between them. His hand lay on the cushion, palm up. She looked at it for a long moment before placing hers against it. His fingers closed around hers, carefully, as though he were afraid the cut had made him clumsy. “Was any of it real?” she asked. He turned toward her. For once, he seemed unable to find a polished answer. “The cab,” she said. “The dinners. You looking at me like—” She stopped. “All of it,” he said. “I wanted to see you the next day. And the day after that.” “You could have told me.” “I should have.” Rory studied his face. He looked tired and hurt and entirely too handsome for a man who had brought trouble to Eva’s door. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to ask him ten more questions first. For now, she kept hold of his hand. Outside, footsteps passed beneath the window, swallowed by the noise of Brick Lane. Lucien glanced toward the sound, then back at her. “In the morning,” Rory said, “we find out who has that ledger.” He nodded. “Together.” She believed he meant it. When she leaned against him, he settled his uninjured arm around her shoulders and let her choose how close to come.