She turned onto her side and stared at the glow of the streetlight through the curtain. If she was wrong, she’d apologize. But if she was right, she needed to know before she allowed herself to feel guilty for it. That was the part that had kept her awake for weeks.
By Thursday morning, her decision was clear. She dressed in quiet clothes, not to draw attention—just to feel solid. Her workday blurred past her in fragments. She couldn’t hear what anyone said. All she could think about was six o’clock. Bloomingdale Avenue. And who else might be waiting there.