He was gone before she could ask what he meant.
She stood in the stairwell, pen in one hand, the other still open at her side. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
She closed her hand slowly, like she was holding on to something she wasn’t ready to name.
Chapter thirteen
Something True
Margot’sroomwasexactlyas she’d left it.
Laptop open on the desk. To-do list in three colors of ink. The expo binder tabbed and annotated, the most-used sections worn soft at the edges. One lamp burning beside it.
The curtain half-open, ocean visible in the dark, the sound of it coming through the cracked balcony door in a low, steady rhythm.
She sat on the edge of the bed and held her right hand in her left.
It was still warm. The palm of it, where Evan had pulled her up from the step. She’d let go first, she always let go first, but the warmth had followed her down three corridors and up two flights and it was still there, sitting in her hand like a small coal.
She opened the laptop.
She had fourteen unread emails. Two from vendors about tomorrow’s setup. One from Lila’s assistant. One from Elaine marked URGENT that had arrived at 11:22 PM, which was aggressive even by Elaine’s standards. The rest was noise.
She opened the checklist document and typed four words: Power backup. Physical key.
Before she let herself close the laptop, she attached the battery-backup sheet from the binder and forwarded it to the lock manufacturer with a request for serial-number confirmation. If the paper trail was clean, she wanted proof. If it was not, she wanted that too.
Then she closed the document and stared at the screensaver.
Her phone buzzed. She turned it over.
A photo from Mom.
A cardboard reindeer made from paper towel rolls, painted badly and wearing a glitter bow. Below it:
Craft night at the church. Thought you’d appreciate. Miss you. How’s the ocean?
Margot stared at the picture longer than she meant to. One antler was noticeably longer than the other. The bow covered most of the reindeer’s face. It was perfect.
She almost called.
Two rings and Mom would answer. She always answered. Midnight, craft night, Sunday afternoon. It didn’t matter. Lucy Pine had decided long ago that her children would never have a reason to wonder whether someone would pick up.
Margot knew that. She’d relied on it for close to thirty years.
But if she heard Mom’s voice right now, with the ocean outside and the warmth still lingering in her palm and the ornaments gone, she would say something true.
And she wasn’t ready for something true.
Tonight she needed to be competent and controlled and fine, and Mom would dismantle all three in under a minute.
She set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Then she opened a new email window. Addressed it to no one. Typed:
Mom. Today was the worst professional day I’ve had since David, and a man I’ve known for six days pulled me off a concrete stairwell floor and held my hand and I think I might be in serious trouble. The ornaments are gone and it might be my fault and Elaine looked at me like I was already finished. I don’t know if I’m okay. I think I will be but I don’t know yet.
She read it once. Then closed the tab without saving.
