Page 63 of Forging Caine

I dragged a hand over my forehead.Focus, Sam. “I only found out about this place on Friday.”

“Antonio didn’t tell you?” She unwrapped a piece of gum and tossed it into her mouth, the scent of classic Hubba Bubba wafting off it.

“He didn’t know, either.” I tapped the printout. “So, these sheets were loose inside the envelope.”

Lucy turned the envelope over. “No return address?”

“Just the stamp cancel telling us it’s from New York.”

“Old stamp, too. Not something you get at the post office these days.” She held the envelope against the window with the other papers. “And not a regular envelope, either?”

It was a non-standard size and shape, with crisp edges and an almost handmade feel to it.

Lucy put a finger to a seam and popped the back open. “Not held together tightly.”

As she unfolded it against the window, we drew closer. There was a lighter section near the middle, in the shape of an x.

“Is that a—” I started.

“Watermark? Yeah.” She popped a bubble so big it almost hit the paper.

I turned my head slowly, cocking one eyebrow.

She swallowed, but not the gum, and twisted the sheet so it was upside down. “Two crossed paintbrushes.”

Something skittered through my brain. A memory. I knew this symbol from somewhere. I closed my eyes and tried to stop thinking about it—tried to let it come to me. “It’s an art supply store’s logo.”

“From New York?” She handed the unfolded envelope to me and pulled out her phone, typing away.

“Maybe?” I’d spent a lot of time in New York, almost as much as California. Working storms, gallery and museum consults, and general claims adjusting. “Could it be related to the words written on the onionskins?”

Lucy held her phone out in front of me. “Indigo Lake Art Supply in SoHo.”

“What’s their address? Any chance it’s 13 Fell Avenue or something?”

“Lemme check.” She scrolled and tapped, navigating her way around their site. “Pretty high-end products, from the looks of it. Conservation materials, antique paints for period reproductions, and a wide selection of handmade papers from around the world. But nothing about 13 Fell.”

I paced away from the window, toward the railing to look over the edge. The conservators were practically statues, each of them working small pieces in front of themselves. I headed to the nearest desk. To the sign. “Maybe the people at Indigo Lake know something about it?”

“You think the watermark’s another clue?” Lucy took the envelope from me and sat at the desk, pulling out her laptop. “They go to all these lengths to conceal the actual images and words. Why not spell everything out clearly once the whole thing was together? Why bother with the mystery?”

“If 13 Fell isn’t an address—the only one I could find was in California and the envelope came from New York—what else could it mean?”

“Maybe the address in California is where a stolen thing is going to? Or where it came from? Maybe it’s a…” Her keyboard clacked as she typed, no doubt searching for each thing she rattled off. “Brand name of a color, like Blue Number Thirteen or something? Maybe it’s about thirteen things falling?”

“Depending on who you ask, thirteen’s either a lucky or an unlucky number.” I closed my eyes, running through religious meanings, mathematical significance, television, and sport. How did any of them relate to falling? “Thirteen people at the Last Supper, just before you could say Jesus fell.”

“It’s a prime. A Fibonacci number.” Lucy popped a bubble. “Atomic number for Aluminum.”

“Twelve gods in the Greek pantheon, plus Zeus as the thirteenth.”

“Speaking of which, did I tell you I’m going to Greece in a couple of weeks?” Lucy’s fingers continued moving across her keyboard as she talked, chatter being the sign she was getting close, but not quite there yet. “My parents are doing a tour of the Greek islands for the summer, and I haven’t gone anywhere with them since I started at MSU, so I figured, what with graduating and all, I’d join them. You know, make videos, eat food, meet people.”

A little pit opened in my stomach and I lost focus on the scanned sheet. She was leaving?

Her fingers paused. “I need to clear my head and get back to my roots.”

“Your roots aren’t in Greece.” They were as firmly in Brenton as mine were growing.

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