After a moment, I take the sketchbook. It’s surprisingly heavy, pages crinkling between the covers, and Christ, I have not had enough coffee to deal with riddles. What exactly is she trying to say?
“You mean the sketches of me?”
Waverly looks miserable as she hugs herself. “Sort of. It’ll make sense when you see—but please go somewhere else first. I can’t bear to watch you look at them.”
My heart thuds, sluggish and steady. I squint at my girl, haloed with bright sunshine, as my aching brain tries to put two and two together.
“You’re talking about the secret sketches,” I say slowly. “The ones you did of me before.”
Waverly jolts, suddenly spearing me with those baby blues. Her mouth drops open. “Wait… you knew?”
Did I know about this sweet young woman’s inexplicable fixation with me?
