“No.” Neil let the word hang a moment. “What are you afraid of finding out?” he asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I forgot you’re good at this.”

  “I am good at my job.”

  Penelope shook her head and shot him a look of disdain.

  “You’re a private detective. A deceiver.” She looked away and under her breath she said, “You make people think they’re safe.”

  Neil spoke soft and direct. “Is that your belief, or was it something you’ve heard?”

  She didn’t answer, just lifted her teacup and stared into it, as if something might rise from the steam and tell her what to say.

  She’s been warned, Neil realized. Told to keep her distance. Just like the Masked Man in her manga, seen but never trusted.

  He waited. Letting the silence do what questions couldn’t.

  “I’ve been fooled too, Penelope. More than once.”

  Octavia’s voice carried across the room with graceful precision.

  “I have a small surprise,” she said, rising from her seat. “No one leaves empty-handed tonight. Let’s gather around the Christmas tree. Kozo, would you assist me, please?”

  Kozo quickly went to her side.

  “Please hand the gifts to me one at a time,” she whispered.

  One by one, she personally handed a gift to each guest, their name written in calligraphy on a card included with the gift.

  “To the dreamers,” she said, handing one to Fuji.

  “To the roots,” to the Sacred Tree team.

  “To the voices,” to the music staff.

  “To the bridge between pain and motion,” to the physical therapist.

  “To the guardian of secrets,” to Kozo.

  When she came to Neil and Penelope, she smiled when she offered them both identical boxes. “To the artists, who see what others miss.”

  With such exquisite wrapping, no one could bring themselves to unwrap them. Their appreciation shined in their eyes, warm and genuine smiles illuminating their faces. They returned to the table, and after Fuji’s KFC and beer was joyfully consumed, they began taking their leave.

  Neil stood alone in an alcove off the hallway, opposite the dining room, sake warm in his hand. He sipped as the bowls were cleared from the table, chairs pushed in, the low rustle of coats and polite goodbyes still drifting faintly from the genkan.

  That left Fuji and Octavia near the tree, voices low, lit from one side by the soft shimmer of a paper lantern. Fuji’s laugh floating across the room like jazz on vinyl. Neil didn’t try to listen, that’s what he told himself, in truth, he didn’t want to hear, but their voices, low and intimate, drifted towards him.

  “You create gravity when you walk into a room, Octavia,” Fuji was saying. “And Yuu International has been listing sideways ever since you left.”

  Octavia arched an eyebrow and smiled at him. “You have a gift for flattery, Fuji.”

  “I’m not flattering. I’m mourning.” His smile was slight but genuine. “I miss the energy you brought. The way people worked harder when you were watching. Dreamed bigger when you were in the room.”

  “Dreams,” she said, eyes narrowing, “are expensive commodities at Yuu.”

  “Not when they’re lit from within.”

  The line settled between them, soft as snowfall, but with weight.

  Fuji stepped back, not abruptly, but like he’d just remembered the time.

  “I should leave,” he said.

  Octavia’s chin dipped slightly, and she turned toward the hallway.

  “Walk with me,” she said, and he followed.

  Neil remained still, sake glass half raised in the low light, eyes trailing them as she walked Fuji to the door, her hand resting on the curve of her cane, its faint hum pulsing against the floor like a heartbeat. She waited while Fuji stepped into his shoes and turned his coat collar up. Then, Fuji said something Neil couldn’t hear.

  Fuji paused. He looked at Octavia, not long, not boldly, but with a kind of intent that wrapped around the edges of the moment. Something caught the light on her collarbone: a gold-threaded paper crane, impossibly delicate, that must have drifted down from the Christmas tree, the faintest glint shining off its wing. His hand hovered a moment before reaching, a gesture practiced and patient, like a dancer offering a partner their place in the choreography, before plucking the crane free, its fragile wings soft against his fingertips. His fingers brushed the edge of her collarbone and then were gone.

  He handed it to her without a word.

  Octavia accepted it, her hand closing gently around the fragile thing.

  Fuji bowed, low and fluid.

  “Thank you for tonight,” he said. “And for reminding me what your presence feels like.”

  “Thank you for coming,” she replied.

  She watched him walk to his car, his breath rising in the cold night air, before closing the door. She lingered, her fingers still curled around the fallen paper crane.

  Then she turned with a soft exhale and a small smile, saying her goodbyes to the last of the bustling catering staff as they left.

  Neil finished his sake and let the warmth coat what the words couldn’t. Fuji had charmed his way to the center of attention all evening, but twice tonight he’d managed to shift the air with a whisper, once with Kozo, now with Octavia.

  Fuji Yuu knew exactly what he was doing, Neil told himself as he dropped his gaze to the empty glass in his hand. And he made sure I was watching.

  The warmth of the sake had faded, but Neil didn’t move to refill it. From the sitting room came the musical lilt of voices, bright, close. Not laughter, exactly. Something gentler.

  He stepped to the edge of the hall, standing just beyond the threshold.

  Kozo and Penelope sat on the tatami, gift boxes open in front of them like they’d discovered something rare and private. Penelope held a pen, long, dark, and glinting faintly under the lamplight. It looked hand-forged, the kind of instrument that took ink like breath and answered only to the hand that wielded it.

  “I’ve never seen one like this,” she said, turning it in her fingers. “It’s … perfect.”

  “That’s a custom nib,” Kozo said, leaning in. “Octavia must’ve worked with an artisan on this. That kind of line control? You could draw hair, tears, smoke … anything.”

  “But how did she know?”

  “Last week, I told her I was bringing someone I wanted her to meet, a manga artist, as a guest to her dinner.”

  Penelope smiled, small but real. “She’s very thoughtful.”

  Kozo’s own gift lay beside him: a compact black device, sleek and strange, glowing faintly blue around the edges. He hadn’t stopped grinning since the moment he’d opened it.

  “I have no idea how she even got this,” he muttered. “This isn’t just off-market; it’s one of a kind.”

  “What does it do?” Penelope asked.

  “Anything I tell it to.”

  Neil didn’t step in. He stood, watching the two of them hunched over their treasures like kids at a campfire.

  “You’re thinking. Loudly,” Octavia said as she approached.

  “We need to talk,” said Neil. “Privately.”

  “Sounds like more sake is required,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Octavia cradled the small white‑glazed tokkuri in both hands, the way tradition called for. She tipped it, letting the warm sake slip into Neil’s cup, a narrow‑rimmed ceramic ochoko, the traditional sake cup that holds only a single swallow. She poured another, hesitated, then set both cups in front of him.

  “Getting me drunk?” Neil traced the rim of the first ochoko with his fingertip. “Too late. I passed that two tokkuri ago.”

  She smiled, easy and unhurried, and reached for the bottle of sparkling cider. “Neil, I know you better than that. You would never allow yourself that luxury.” Pouring herself a glass, she said, “Sake doesn’t play well with my medications.”

  They sat together at the table that had earlier been filled with platters and bowls of festive food, now bare and gleaming with a freshly polished surface. A few silent moments passed as they sipped, recalibrating to their steadfast understanding of each other.

  Neil sat back, looking at her, the way a man stares at the last steady light on a long dark road. I want to sit here with her. No words. No need. The kind of presence two people earn after years in the wreckage. She’s the only one I trust … I think. Can anyone be trusted?

  Octavia caught his eyes caressing her face and smiled.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m wondering,” said Neil. “It’s the question I’ve been asking myself all evening.” He took a sip of his sake. “You and Fuji seem to be trading in subtext.”

  She turned her glass of cider between her fingers. “Sometimes subtext is safer than saying things out loud.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Fuji thinks I should come back to Yuu. They’re planning a major unveiling in a few weeks. He says they need my perspective.”

  Neil waited.

  “It’s all very Year of the Dragon,” she added lightly. “They’re even floating names like Dragon Ascendant or Quantum Dragon. Sounds visionary. Inspiring. The kind of thing that makes investors fall over themselves.” She shrugged. “Marketing theater. But they want me in the wings for the show.” She took a slow sip of cider, eyes on him over the rim. “So … what’s the real conversation here?”

  “Penelope’s manga,” Neil said. “There’s more to it than she realizes.”

  “I gathered,” Octavia replied. “I thought you two might have something in common. You’re both artists in your own way. And I sensed Penelope’s a loner, like you.” She leaned back, eyes steady on him. “I also sensed something had gone on between you when I came in. That’s why I announced myself first.” She sipped her cider. “What’s in her manga?”

  Neil pulled out his phone. “Remember the photo I found in Katherine’s journals?”

  “I remember you telling me about it. You didn’t show it to me.”

  Neil swiped through his photo roll and handed the phone to Octavia. “This is the photo Katherine took.”

  Octavia leaned in. The light from the phone caught the amber of her cider, casting pale refractions across the table. The image filled the screen: A modest public park in Singapore. Frangipani trees, an iron bench, a low concrete wall framing a path worn smooth by time and foot traffic. And five figures.

  They were facing the camera, facing Katherine, though her shadow didn’t appear in the frame. On the far left: a tall man, angular and cold, standing apart from the others like a blade set sideways.

  Octavia’s breath stilled. Her hand didn’t shake, but it found the table as though it needed something solid. “That’s Smyth,” she said, her voice cool, analytical. “On the left. Even in the daylight …” She shuddered. “Those eyes.”

  Neil watched her, taking in the slight tension across her throat, the way she pressed her thumb into the table’s edge.

  “He saw her,” she added. “Saw Katherine taking the photo. That look … He knew.”

  She lifted her finger and pointed to the two men in the center. “And these two?” Her voice faltered, but her eyes stayed fixed.

  Neil exhaled slowly. “The one on the left, dark suit, no tie, that’s Kurt Devlin. Athena’s husband. I thought he was dead. Now I’m not so sure. He may have been Katherine’s source.”

  “And the other?”

  Neil tapped the screen. “That’s the man I’ve been hunting for years. I thought he killed Emily.”

  Octavia’s head turned slightly. “But now you don’t?”

  “No,” Neil said. “Now I think he protected her.”

  A long pause. Then her gaze drifted to the rightmost figure in the photo.

  “And that,” he said, voice low, “is Emily.”

  “Emily? Your Emily?”

  Octavia’s eyes roamed Emily’s posture, the tilt of her head, her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a child just barely visible at the edge of the frame, out of focus, partially cropped.

  “She was there,” Octavia said, barely above a whisper. “Penelope didn’t imagine this. She didn’t dream it. She was there.”

  Neil straightened. His eyes focused on the second ceramic cup of sake as if he were gazing into a crystal ball, and then he nodded. “She wanted to ask me to help her find her mother,” he said. “She got close. Circled around it twice. But then she changed her mind. Shut it down.”

  Octavia scoffed and leaned in. “And you … didn’t press her?”

  Neil didn’t reply. He picked up the final cup of sake, sighed wearily, and with his eyes closed, he took a slow sip.

  “I could tell she didn’t trust me yet,” he said. “But she might trust you.”

  Octavia tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “You want me to ask her?”

  “I want you to help her believe I’m not the enemy,” Neil said. “And if she’s willing, that I can track her mother down.”

  Octavia’s brow creased, eyes drifting back to the sketch. “Emily …” she said softly. “You think she’s Emily’s daughter.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Octavia leaned back, processing. “Neil …” Her voice dropped with certainty. “It’s so obvious.”

  “What is?” he asked, barely above a murmur.

  “Just look at her,” Octavia said, her voice carrying a hint of disbelief. “You sat with her before dinner. You sat beside her during the meal.” She shook her head, more to herself than to him. “The way she studies people. Her dry timing. Her silence. The tilt of her smile when she’s pushing you away just enough, so you won’t push her first.”

  Neil felt the hit, the punch of her words, targeted directly at his heart. He pressed his hand against his chest.

  “She looks like you,” Octavia said. “Same bone structure. Same eyes. There’s defiance in her, but it’s measured. Like someone taught her that silence doesn’t mean surrender. Neil … That girl, the girl in the photograph … That’s Penelope.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “She’s the right age,” Octavia continued. She swiped to the sketch Neil had shown her, the mirror view. “She drew this from memory. She was there.” Her voice faltered, but not from doubt. “Is it possible she’s your daughter?”

  Neil didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His throat burned. Something sharp pressed up from the dark, too long buried, now clawing loose. He knew Octavia was watching him, waiting for a response. Not judging, not pushing. Just there. That made it worse. Made it real. A pulse throbbed in his temple. He opened his mouth, but the truth jammed there, splintering, too raw to speak. And then—there was a sound.

  The soft creak of wood and winter socks against polished floors. Neil and Octavia turned their heads.

  Penelope stood in the doorway, frozen. Face pale, arms limp at her sides, caught between fight and flight.

  Neil’s heart jumped. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she turned and bolted, no sound but the whisper of her feet over wood and tatami.

  “Penelope!” he called out.

  Kozo rushed out of the sitting room. “What’s going on?” He spotted Penelope as she pivoted towards the exterior door. He rushed down the hallway and caught up to her as she struggled to put her shoes on. “Penelope …”

  She stumbled, startled, unguarded. Kozo crouched down to help her up, and then he couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head and pressed her cheek against his chest. They held each other in silence.

  “Penelope,” said Octavia as she approached and reached out to the girl wrapped in Kozo’s arms. “Come with me.”

  Penelope didn’t move. Her fingers curled tight against Kozo’s shirt, then slowly let go.

  She leaned back just enough to peer around him.

  Octavia stood beneath the soft hallway light, her hair catching the glow like pale silk.

  Penelope blinked. Her chest rose with a sharp inhale. Kozo eased his arms away.

  Octavia’s hand waited, steady and outstretched.

  Penelope reached for it.

  Chapter 30

  Neil stood in the shadows of the corridor, watching Kozo’s protective embrace and Octavia’s soft words guiding Penelope toward the hallway to the right of the kitchen. Neil took a step forward and then stopped.

  Don’t follow. She could be my daughter, or she could be another lie. Either way, it’s a detour from the reason I’m here.

  He turned toward the kitchen, where he opened the upper cupboard and reached behind the Sencha tin and a box of ceremonial matches. The bundle was still there: plain cotton wrapping, tied once. He laid it on the counter and unwrapped it. Wrecking yard dust clung to the seams. The casing underneath was scuffed, one edge chipped where the yard kid had dropped it hustling it out.

  Kozo rushed toward him, shoulders tight, voice direct. “What did you say to her?”

  He’s changed. The shyness and timidity. I think I’m going to miss that.

  “Nothing,” Neil said. “She heard something that wasn’t meant for her.”

  Kozo started to speak, but Neil cut him off.

  “I’ve something to show you.” He gestured toward the metal box resting on white cotton.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m unwrapping trouble.”

  Kozo’s eyes darkened. He took a hesitant step back. “What kind of trouble are you unwrapping?”

  “I took it from a wrecked vehicle before it was demolished.”

  “Why bring it to me?”

  “You’re the only one capable of extracting the answers I need.”

  Kozo didn’t move. His eyes narrowed as he studied Neil’s face. “What did you do to upset Penelope?”

  “I didn’t do anything. Did you do something?” Neil responded.

  “No.” Kozo’s eyes left Neil and moved back and forth as if examining his memories.

  “Whatever upset her, Octavia is handling. So, in the meantime …” Neil gestured toward the object on the white cotton wrapping.