“Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?” My scalp is trying to leave the building. It’s prickling with apprehension, and my subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound non-chalant enough.“Oh, that’s Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr. Grey.” Greta seems more than happy to share.“Mrs. Lincoln?” I thought Mrs. Robinson was divorced. Perhaps she’s remarried to some poor sap.“Yes. She’s not usually here, but one of our technicians is sick today so she’s lling in.”“Do you know Mrs. Lincoln’s rst name?”Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curios-ity. Shit, perhaps this is a step too far.“Elena,” she says, almost reluctantly.I’m swamped by a strange sense of relief that my spidey sense has not let me down. Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense. They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm sooth