Petra texted on Monday morning at seven forty-three, before Maren had finished her tea.
*Found something. Not the archive this time. Meet me at opening.*
The library opened at nine. Maren was there at eight fifty-six, standing in the thin November drizzle with her collar turned up, watching Elena Solis move through the lit interior unlocking things. When the door opened, Petra was already inside — she had, apparently, her own key, which was the sort of detail that made perfect sense and that Maren had somehow never registered.
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