Violet looked at me. “Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Aurelia didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just sat there staring at the coffee table.
Warren closed his briefcase and stood.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” he said. “Same time.”
He left.
I walked him to the door and closed it behind him. When I came back to the living room, my daughters were still sitting there. Nobody had moved.
I stood in the doorway looking at them.
“There’s food in the kitchen,” I said. “Your old rooms are upstairs. Good night.”
I turned and walked up the stairs.
Behind me, I heard one of them—Naomi, I think—say something quietly. Then Rosalind’s voice. Then Celeste’s.
I stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. I couldn’t make out the words, just voices—low, tense.
I walked to my bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed.
One night down.
Twenty-four to go.
I waited there for a few minutes, listening. The house was old. Sound carried. I could hear them talking downstairs—not the words, just the murmur of voices.
Then I stood up, walked to the window, and looked down at the driveway.
All five cars were still there. Naomi’s rental. Rosalind’s SUV. Celeste’s sedan. Violet’s convertible. Aurelia’s beat-up Honda.
They hadn’t left.
I looked at the living room window. The light was still on. I could see shadows moving.
What are they saying? I wondered. Are they planning to leave? Are they already trying to figure out a way around the rules?
I didn’t know.
But I knew tomorrow night there would be another letter. And the night after that, another. And each one would be harder than the last.
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