I’d stood across from a hundred men on the worst morning of their lives.
I knew exactly how this conversation went.
I opened the door.
PART 4
Garrett stood on my porch in the gray dawn light, and he looked like a man who had aged ten years in four hours.
The coat was rumpled. The confidence was gone. His eyes were red and wild, darting, and when the door opened he lurched forward like he might fall into the house, into me, into some version of our life that had existed yesterday and did not exist anymore.
“Camille. Thank God. Cam, there’s been— something’s happened, the accounts, the airport, they— I don’t understand what’s happening, you have to help me, please—”
I didn’t step back to let him in. I stood in my own doorway, in my robe, with my tea going cold on the table behind me, and I let him see my face.
