Eight
Cam fidgeted on the hard bench. She’d been marched to the waiting room by the man, who was now describing the process patrons must follow to secure a place on Lely’s schedule.
She was waiting for a pause into which she could reasonably insert a request to use the privy, cover for another try at the models’ room, when the door behind the secretary’s desk opened.
It wasn’t Lely, but the man in the smock who had reported on Miss Quinn’s disposition earlier.
The man looked at her and nearly fumbled the tray of dishes and glasses he was carrying.
“Mary, Mother of God,” he uttered.
“Stephen, any word on Peter?” the reedy man said. “I checked every place you suggested. No sign.”
Stephen pointed wordlessly at the doorway behind him, though his gaze never left her face. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Actually he looked as if he’d seen a ghost standing between Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa, holding the lead to a unicorn.
Stephen’s colleague rushed toward Lely’s door, clapped the list under Stephen’s arm as he passed, and disappeared into the office.
“I think,” Stephen said firmly to Cam, “you will have to leave.”