“I know that too.”
Her eyes softened with a sadness deeper than anger. “But I do believe you’re sorry.”
He carried that sentence with him all the way to his mother’s house.
The Bellamy estate sat on a ridge outside Franklin, all limestone pillars and manicured lawns, built by a grandfather who believed houses should announce permanence. Lights glowed in every front window when Rowan arrived, though his mother lived there alone with a rotating staff who moved like ghosts.
Claire’s car was parked near the side entrance.
Rowan sat in his car for a moment, staring at it.
He had expected Claire would be there. That did not make seeing the car easier.
His phone buzzed once.
Priya: Keep your questions simple. Let them talk.
He placed the phone in his inner pocket and walked inside.
Evelyn Bellamy waited in the formal sitting room beneath a portrait of Rowan’s father. She wore a navy dress, pearls, and the expression she used at funerals: dignified sorrow sharpened by control. Claire stood near the fireplace, pale but composed.
