“You call me if you need anything today,” she said.
“I will,” I replied, and I meant it.
After she left, I stood alone in the bedroom, dressed now in navy silk, my shoes polished, my makeup controlled and clean.
I opened my purse and slid in a small voice recorder.
The motion was instinct more than plan. I had learned long ago that when power shifts, people lie. They lie quickly, convincingly, and often without shame. Proof was the only language that mattered when someone tried to rewrite the story.
The clock read 10:00 a.m.
Three hours until St. Andrew’s.
I wrapped a cashmere scarf around my neck, the one Michael had given me years ago. The fabric was still soft, still smelled faintly like his cologne when I pressed it near my face. For a beat, the memory almost broke me.
Then I remembered the note on my pillow.
I picked up my coat and walked out into the cold.
The wind slapped my cheeks the moment I stepped outside. It was a clean Boston cold, bracing and unapologetic. Snow creaked underfoot. The black town car waited in the circular driveway, engine idling.
My driver opened the door and glanced at me in the rearview mirror with the polite interest of someone who had known me for years and sensed something was off.
I shook my head slightly.
Not today.
I slid into the back seat and let the door close behind me, shutting out the house, the bedroom, the mirror.
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