They retreated to the "Midnight Oil" to examine their find, tucked into a back booth where the shadows were deepest.
"'To my dearest Clara,'" Chloe read aloud, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic rhythm. "'The draft board says I leave in three weeks. They're sending me to a place I can't spell. But every brick I lay in this tower, I lay for you. So that when the wind blows through the bell, you'll hear my heart.'"
Liam stopped sketching. He looked at the letter, then at the blueprint he was drafting of the tower. "The bell was removed in 1992 because of structural instability. He was building the tower while he was a student here. Probably an engineering or architecture major."
"He was leaving for the war," Chloe realized, her heart aching for a man she'd never known. "Liam, we can't just turn in a floor plan. We have to tell their story. This is the 'human' element the Dean wanted."
Liam looked at the sketches—precise, cold, mathematical. Then he looked at Chloe, whose eyes were bright with a sudden, infectious passion.
"If I build the model," Liam said slowly, "can you find out what happened to Clara? If we can prove the tower was a monument to... well, to this... maybe we can convince the board not to demolish it next spring."
Chloe reached across the table, her hand landing on his. It wasn't an accident this time. "A joint mission. The Architect and the Journalist."
Liam didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he turned his palm up, threading his fingers through hers. The grit of the balsa wood glue on his skin felt grounding against her soft palms.
"It's a deal, Simms."