The study sat off the east hall, smaller than the west wing studio and less guarded, though it carried the same fingerprints. A guitar case leaned in the corner nobody but Franz ever touched. Framed film stills lined one wall, a few of them leaned against the baseboard, waiting on hooks that hadn't been hung yet. A stack of sketchbooks sat squared on the desk beside sheet music nobody had played through in months, and a wheeled whiteboard had been shoved between two bookshelves since the security overhaul during Arianne's pregnancy, the one piece of furniture in the room that had nothing to do with him at all. Julian pulled it free, wheels catching once on the rug before he rolled it into the center of the floor.
He uncapped a marker and drew a single line down the middle of the board, splitting it into two columns before anyone had said a word about how they wanted this organized.
