Rosa placed on your instruction.”

Marco laid a single grainy photograph on top of the silk. Old Grove’s interior camera. Timestamp bottom right. A younger Clare, twenty-four or twenty-five, hair pulled up in a working knot. White apron over a black shirt. A paper cup of coffee balanced against her forearm as she wiped a table.

She was laughing at something someone off-frame had said.

Aleandro looked at the photograph. He kept looking at it. Marco waited a full minute. Then he understood, without being told, that this was one