time.
Margaret looked at Mary Caldwell through the open window and answered—
“He said it was practical.”
Mary did not flinch. She simply nodded once, a slow, heavy movement of her head that carried the weight of a woman who had seen the ink dry on a thousand betrayals. She reached over and pushed the passenger door open.
“Get in, Meg,” Mary said softly. “The wind is coming up.”
The interior of the sedan smelled like old paper, peppermint, and leather—a quiet, professional sanctuary that felt miles away from the
