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Whit raised his brows. “Who’s it from?”

“How did Mr. Burton know where to find me?”

“The staff at Shepheard’s must have assumed you’d be with Ricardo. Who’s it from?”

“I’ll read it later.”

“Not what I asked.”

“It’s none of your business, Whit.”

“What if it’s important?” he pressed.

“Trust me, it’s not.” I narrowed my gaze at him. “I thought we didn’t discuss personal matters.”

He rolled his eyes and sat next to me, folding his long legs close to his body so as not to knock anything over. “We don’t unless they make you upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“I know when you are, Olivera,” Whit said. “You wear everything on your face.”

“Then stop looking at my face,” I said pointedly.

Whit opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut.

“What were you going to say?”

“Absolutely nothing helpful,” he muttered.

“I’ll tell you who it’s from if you tell me who sent yours,” I said. “Nosy.”

His eyes flicked down to his pocket. “It’s from my father.”

“Oh.” He rarely talked of his family. A small part of me wished I hadn’t pressed, but he’d annoyed me with his questions. Whit didn’t say anything else, and so I cleared my throat and said, “Mine is from my aunt. She must be furious.”

“She probably wants you to come home.”

“I bet your family wants the same for you.”

His hands flexed, tension rising around him like steam over boiling water. We sat in silence and when it became clear he wouldn’t say more, I resumed working.

“We’re opening her tomb tomorrow,” Whit said suddenly. “Did your uncle tell you?”

I pressed my lips into a thin line and nodded.

“Why aren’t you more excited?”

I would have been. My time in Egypt had softened my resentment, had seduced me with its sweeping expanse of desert filled with temples and a million secrets hidden beneath its golden sand. The people here were warm and kind and incredibly hospitable. I’d become part of the team, and the feeling of all of us working toward the same goal was intoxicating, heady in a way I hadn’t expected. I wanted to be there with them as they opened Cleopatra’s tomb.

Impossible, because I wouldn’t be there. I cleared my throat and tried for a nonchalant tone. It had just occurred to me that this would probably be the last time I’d be alone with Mr. Whitford Hayes. I met his gaze, knowing that I wouldn’t answer his question because I didn’t want to tell another lie. I was sick of the secrecy, the sneaking around, the heavy weight pressing on my shoulders.

I wanted to deal in truth—as much as I could stomach, and I wanted to start right then.

Then it could be over.

Over before it ever began.

“Whit, I’m going to tell you something, and I need you not to say anything. I don’t want to know what you think or what you would have said. I just want to tell you something true. All right?”