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arm, but Lara didn't reach far for anything this time. Jasna quietly clenched her fists.
    The father had a disturbing resemblance to a German hedgehog doll she'd seen once in a shop window in Montreal, soon after she'd moved there with her brother. This guy had the same fuzzy bristles on his head and same ugly stub nose.
    Lara handed Jasna the bag of coffee. “Go on. Smell it.”
    This had become their ritual. Jasna had told Lara that just one sniff could transport her across the ocean back to Bosnia. Jasna had been only thirteen when she'd left her homeland, too young to care for coffee, but its rich comforting small carried her back to that shabby kitchen in Srebrenica which had once been the center of her world. Not that she'd ever want to actually make that trip.
    Lara giggled as Jasna sniffed then went into a fake swoon. She said, “How about some cevapi for your dinner? I made it this morning before school and it's really good.”
    Jasna smiled. “I thought I recognized that amazing aroma.” They headed over to the steam table and Jasna lifted the lid from a stainless steel pan. “Mmm, I'll take three of these. You're quite the saleswoman.”
    Lara scooped three of the minced lamb and beef kabobs into a waxed paper carton and Jasna added it to her basket.
    As she passed the bakery section she said, “I had better get some Somun bread to go with the kababs. And maybe some of this Travnički cheese.” She filled up her basket and brought it to the check-out counter.
    The creak of the heavy storeroom door opening again caused them both to stiffen. In her peripheral vision, Jasna could see the father standing immobile, arms crossed, watching them.
    After Lara slid her change across the counter, Jasna gave the girl a quick smile, then hurried out of the store with her plastic bag. Her mouth was dry, and her body was damp with sweat. She unlocked her bike, got on a bit unsteadily, and edged out into traffic.
    She had to do something about this situation. Had Lara's father seen the girl slip the note into Jasna's bag of groceries?

CHAPTER EIGHT
    T he following Monday afternoon the heat wave broke and an impossibly blue sky crystallized beyond the GSD's glass roof. Terrace doors were propped open at the ends of the stepping studio levels to let in the crisp breezes of a New England fall.
    Iris was working her way through one-on-one desk crits, or informal working sessions with her five students to review their initial design strategies. Five foot high, gray Homasote walls surrounded each workspace, creating individual fortresses. Iris, perched on a backless stool in Jasna's pod, huddled over an array of sketches on yellow tracing paper. In just one week Jasna had come up with some interesting concepts. The fragile young woman, dressed in an army jacket and lace-up boots, explained her theory that the urban context on busy Mount Auburn Street made privacy a priority. She pointed out that the site was crowded by other large buildings, cutting off light and air. In response, she had oriented her building inward, toward a multilevel courtyard.
    Iris had removed her laptop from a tote and was searching for images to show Jasna of a similar courtyard townhouse in a dense suburb of Tokyo when she noticed Xander, in a pressed navy shirt and perfectly matching pants, standing in the opening to the pod.
    “So sorry to disturb you both. May I borrow you for a moment, Iris?” he asked.
    Iris followed him out of the studio into the dimly-lit corridor, where he gave her a sheepish look.
    “I'd like to apologize again for how our dinner ended last week. I was having such a good time talking with you. On Saturday I'm going up to Manchester, New Hampshire to visit a Frank Lloyd Wright house. Would you be interested in joining me on this small pilgrimage? We could have lunch somewhere and make it a day.” He waited expectantly.
    Iris' mind froze. Viewing a building by one architectural celebrity while in the company of another was