ence

erfectl

e rustle of his shirt. The jingle of his keys. T

one. Wit

e seconds in my head.

lled with the hum of the building, the faint wail of a distant siren

rossed to the windows, my reflection a pale shape against the gli

utifu

sole table. Me and Courtland at the Met Gala. His arm

ame. My fingers tr

time since I was sixteen, I spok

ia

of it st

placed the photograph face down. A

An hour and twelve minutes. I saved the file. Evidence_0

ed past caterers, florists, acquaintances.

rison, Gene

protect me from their pity, he'd said. I had been too broken to argu

all button. This was admitt

oice di

morning in Geneva. Perfect. I

ssed

in my ears. It rang four times

thick with sl

ore

inside. A decade of grief rushed up, choking me. I presse

"Florence, what's wrong? Are you okay? Di

and was a balm. I fought for con

spered, my voice crack

silence o

strained. "What d

m everything. The fever. The s

. "That son of a bitch. I'm booking a fl

e'll know. I need to leave, but my way. Cleanly." I was thinking clearly fo

ncle was gone. In his place was the shrewd busin

our mother's strength.

int. I would play the part. Gather evidence.

had settled over me. I was no

ed again around three in the morning. Courtland stumbled in,

? he signed, his

d back, my face a

s betrayal, made my stomach clench. His hands landed

lin

perceptible tighte

unken eyes. He dismissed it. Blamed it on the feve

, I closed my eyes in the presence of the man I was supposed to