nette blinked, feeling as though she had stepped into a dre

her stomach. It was a Ford Transit van, the kind contractors use, at least a decade

is story that it solidified the reality of her situation. Sh

rprisingly gentlemanly, a stark contrast to the vehicle itself. She climbed in.

w at the blur of taxis and pedestrians, her reflection a pale, ghostly image in the gla

lian," she said, her voice small.

eady on the steering wheel. "I don't make

her. Regret wasn't a l

monotone voice. When he asked if she, Annette Sullivan, took this man to be her husband, she looked at Julian. He was

t surreal. The pen felt heavy in her hand. A

ng, holding a crisp piece of paper that declared them husband and wife. The phot

ed he would take her home, back to Queens, to face her pa

asked, a knot of anxiety

he sai

she protested, her voice sharper than she in

first thing my family would notice if they decided to check up on me. It would make this entire arrangeme

hought of facing Tamara's triumphant grin and Wayne's false sincerity

iet, older area, the streets lined with pre-war apartment buildings. He finally pulled to a stop in front of

d turned to her. He held

he one on the left." He looked at her, his gaze direct. "

d. She needed to do this alone. She needed a few hours to proces

t question. "My number," he said, holdi

angely businesslike. Then he started the van again, ready to leave