The bell above the Blue Note’s door chimed again. Marcus froze. He grabbed Elena’s arm, shoving her deeper into the corner of the booth.
“Stay down,” he hissed. “Don’t look up.”
William Croft walked into the club. He looked out of place in his bespoke suit, his eyes scanning the room frantically. He was there to meet Dominic Valerius, the financier of the safehouse, regarding a rumored leak in the conservatory budget.
William walked right past Marcus’s booth.
As he passed, a draft from the air conditioning carried a scent across the room. It was faint, but unmistakable to a man who had mourned it for a year: lavender and rain.
William stopped dead in the middle of the aisle. He spun around, staring at the dark booth where Marcus shielded the woman.
“Victoria?” William whispered, his heart hammering.
He took a step toward them. Marcus prepared to fight. But then, William shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Stop it,” William muttered to himself, the “Imposter Syndrome” and grief playing tricks on his mind. “She’s gone. You’re hallucinating again.”
William turned and walked to the bar, leaving his wife sitting ten feet away in the shadows.