“It’s in there.”
“Good. Keep everything. The clothes, the room key, messages, emails, bank transfers, any documents tied to the apartment. Nothing gets deleted. Nothing gets answered tonight unless we decide together.”
I looked at her.
“That sounds like legal advice.”
“It is.”
My father released me only enough to study my face. “You’re safe here.”
I nodded again, but the word safe felt strange. I had been safe that morning too, hadn’t I? Surrounded by flowers and candles, music and relatives, a husband waiting at the altar with tears in his eyes.
Safety, I was beginning to learn, could be staged.
Inside, the house smelled like cedar, old books, and the lemon polish our housekeeper had used since I was a child. The foyer chandelier scattered light across the marble floor, and for one breath, I saw my mother standing at the base of the stairs, smiling because I had finally come home.
