But grief had walked through those doors before.
So had betrayal.
My hands were still wrapped around the steering wheel when the front door opened.
My father came out wearing a dark robe over his pajamas, his gray hair slightly disheveled. Behind him stood Rebecca, our family attorney and my godmother, dressed in a cream coat thrown hastily over a black blouse. She had been my mother’s closest friend for nearly thirty years, and she was one of the few people outside my family who knew I had chosen to live under my middle name, Ella, instead of Eleanor Wilson.
The moment my father saw me, his face changed.
He had always been a composed man. Jonathan Wilson did not raise his voice at board meetings. He did not slam his fist on tables. He did not let competitors see fear, and he did not let family see panic.
