On the second day, Belle came to my apartment.
She looked flawless, like she’d dressed for a camera and borrowed tears from someone else.
She clutched her bag to her chest and said:
“Carolyn, please. Let me explain.”
I stepped aside.
She sat on the edge of my couch, careful not to get comfortable.
“That chat got out of hand,” she said quickly. “We didn’t mean it. We were joking.”
I kept my voice calm.
“You don’t joke for seven years.”
Her eyes flicked away.
“Aunt Marlene started the bedding stuff. I was young. I just went along.”
“You kept going,” I said. “You didn’t stop when it was my job. You didn’t stop when it was my marriage.”
The softness fell off her face for half a second, and something colder showed underneath.
Then she changed tactics.
“You can’t tell Grandma,” she said. “She’s fragile. This could shock her. Do you want that on your conscience?”
