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“Good for you.”

“You’re also burning the croissants.”

Lucy spun around. She pulled the tray from the oven and set it on the rack with more force than necessary. The second tray was darker than it should have been. Not ruined, but close. “I’m not burning anything.”

“Your face is doing the thing.”

“Don’t say the firefighter.”

Marco crossed his arms. “I wasn’t going to. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Lucy.”

“I don’t know.” She set down the spatula and pressed her palms flat against the counter. “He was quiet yesterday. He said he was busy. He said he’d explain today.”

“Explain what?”

“He didn’t say.”

Marco was quiet. His face went from teasing to something softer, almost wary. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

“Yesterday at four. It’s tomorrow.”

“Did you call him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The truth was she was afraid of what she’d hear in his voice, and the silence had a wrongness she couldn’t put words to. The last time she’d seen him, Thursday night, in her apartment, his voice rough with the things he was only willing to say with his hands, he’d been present as he never had before.

And now he was gone.

“I’m not going to chase him,” she said.

“Who said anything about chasing? I’m asking if you called.”

“I don’t chase.”

“You called me when the pipe burst.”

“That was an emergency.”

“This might be an emergency, Lucy. You don’t know.”

She picked up her phone. Opened Knox’s contact. His name sat on the screen, plain and factual, and she stared at it while the espresso machine cycled twice.

She put the phone in her pocket.

The morning rush came and went, the regulars in their usual order. The line moved without her having to think about it, which was useful, because she couldn’t.

Marco had been watching her. She could feel him assessing.

He took the coffee pot from her hands. “Go sit down. I’ll handle the counter.”

“I don’t need to sit down.”