Not anger.
Not yet.
Grief.
It moved through me slowly, flooding every locked room inside me, touching all the places I had boarded up and called healed. I remembered Megan standing in our foyer while rain struck the tall windows behind her. Her dark hair had been loose around her shoulders. She had not packed. She had not defended herself with strategy or calculation. She had only held out her hands and begged me to look at her.
“Rowan, please. Someone is setting me up.”
And I, with all my education and power and supposed intelligence, had looked at the woman who knew my silences better than anyone alive and chosen the lie that hurt less than trust.
By the time I reached my car, my phone had buzzed eleven times.
Claire.
A string of messages lit the screen.
Where are you?
Dinner is at seven.
Your mother called about the seating chart.
