His eyes scan my face before he turns his attention towards the drawing. He takes a step in that direction and as he stops, his hands drop to his sides. I watch from behind him as his head tilts slightly to the left, before it moves to the right. "Are you talking about that drawing right there? Is it the drawing of the woman with the long dark hair? The woman in the wheelchair?"

I nod before I realize that he can't see the motion. "Yes. That's Maisy."

He pivots on his heel until he's facing me directly again. His brow softens as he looks down at me. "That's not Maisy. I don't know who told you that was her, but they're wrong."

Chapter 6

"Vanessa saw the drawing." I gesture towards it with a dip of my chin. "She told me it was Maisy."

He cranes his neck around so he can look directly at the pencil portrait again. "I have seen this. You showed it to me weeks ago."

"Why didn't you tell me then that it was Maisy?"

He turns back to eye me warily before he moves closer to the easel. His hands dart out to grab the paper, cradling it carefully. "I remember looking at this. You showed me other drawings that night. There was one of a woman outside a flower shop."

There might have been. I can't recall exactly what each portrait looked like. The only clear memory I have of that night is the expression on his face when he was looking at my work. He was entranced and when he'd told me that he thought it was gallery quality, it hadn't mattered that he was a fireman who appreciated art from the vantage point of a frequent visitor to the city's museums. At that time, his words meant more to me than any that even the most educated art critic would have shared.

My chest expands on a deep breath. "You looked at that portrait of Maisy back then and you didn't tell me it was her. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell you because it's not her." He holds the paper in the air so it catches the early afternoon light that is streaming in from the window. "This isn't Maisy."

"Vanessa was sure it was Maisy."

"She's never even met Maisy." He shakes his head so slightly that the motion is almost unnoticeable. "I never introduced Maisy to her. My mother knows Maisy. My brother does too, but that's it."

His brother?  The casual mention of a sibling I've never heard of only reiterates the reality that I know little about his life. I've never met any of his family beyond Garrett. I wouldn't know Dane's brother, or his mother, if I struck up a conversation with them on the subway. They're strangers to me, just as Maisy was until I saw her at the museum.

"Your mother was at the hospital with Maisy a few weeks ago." I try not to let all of the self-righteous indignation I'm feeling seep into the words. "Vanessa met her then. She saw them there together again two days ago. Vanessa said you were there too."

His jaw tightens. "My mother was with Maisy at the hospital? You're sure?"

I'm not sure of anything other than the fact that I feel as though I've fallen off a ledge into a bottomless pit of confusion. I don't know who to believe but I do know that Vanessa has never led me astray. She may view Zoe as her closest friend, but we've forged a bond the past few months that feels solid and secure. I doubt she'd willfully deceive me about the portrait. She saw Maisy in the woman's face in the drawing. Apparently, Dane doesn’t see the same familiarity.

I tap my shoe against the floor. "I'm sure. That's what Vanessa told me."

His brow furrows for no more than a few seconds before he drops his gaze back down to the pencil portrait. He studies it intently as he mumbles something under his breath about the color of her hair and its length. "Did this woman have a mole under her eye?"

"A what?"

His fingers brush across the left side of his face. "Did the woman in the portrait have a mole under her left eye? A small mole? Was it there?"

I pull my hand to my lips as I lean forward to peer at the drawing. I hadn't included that detail. I had noticed it almost immediately but as I stood next to her and finished the drawing, I hadn't added the mole. Once I got home from the museum, I finessed the fine lines and then I'd slipped the paper into the cardboard box with the dozens of others I'd completed. I meant to add the mole, but I'd forgotten.

His words are less a question than a confirmation. He wouldn't know about the mole unless he knew it was there, adding to the beauty of her face. "Yes."

"She's pregnant?" he asks calmly. "You thought Maisy was pregnant because this woman is?"

I dip my chin towards the paper. "That woman told me she was having a son. She was there with a man. I just saw his back. He kissed her belly."

He swallows hard as he pulls in a deep, stuttered breath. "Was she happy? Did they look happy?"

"I didn't see his face," I begin cautiously. "I thought...I thought last night it was you there with her."

"It wasn't me." He eyes me carefully. "Did they look happy, Bridget?"

I nod slowly. "She was really happy."

His hand leaps to his chin as his gaze falls once again to the portrait. "She deserves to be happy. She deserves it all."

"Who?" I ask tentatively.

"Cleo," he says softly. "This has to be Cleo."

"I don't understand." I reach for the edge of the portrait. "Who is Cleo?"

"She's Maisy's sister." He slides the paper into my hands. "I've been looking for her for months."

Chapter 7

I stare down at the screen of my smartphone. I saw the resemblance between Maisy Trimble and her sister, Cleo, the moment Dane handed my phone back to me. He'd insisted on finding a picture of Maisy through an Internet search. It was a corporate headshot posted on the website of the financial firm she works at. I scan the details of her face before my gaze stops on her name. Mae Trimble. It's no wonder that Zoe and I couldn’t find her.

"Her name is Mae?" I don't look up from the screen as I ask the question.

"She always hated that name." Dane's long index finger taps the edge of my phone. "Both sisters were named after their grandmothers. Cleo loves her name. Maisy has learned to like hers but she asked me to call her Maisy when we first met, so I did."

I study her face as I listen to the man she once loved telling me about her. It feels invasive and intimate in a way that I can't fully comprehend. I've never met her, yet now that I know that I spent a few brief moments with her sister, I feel a connection to her. Maybe that's defined within my relationship with Dane or maybe it's more about the fact that I no longer feel threatened by Maisy.

"We look nothing alike," I comment. "She looks completely different than me."

He chuckles softly. "Why would you look alike?"

"She's beautiful." I slide my fingers over the screen of the phone to enlarge the picture. "Her hair is brown. Her eyes are too. Most men have a type."

"You're beautiful, Bridget." He tugs on the edge of the phone. "I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world."

They may be words meant to placate me since I've just seen an image of his ex-girlfriend for the first time. I don't need that reassurance though. I've spent the night and most of this morning believing that Cleo was Maisy.