lived in Beacon Hill, knew exactly which fork belonged beside which plate, and never seemed to leave the house without an expensive-looking coat.
I typed one word.
“Understood.”
Then I made coffee and stayed home.
Their anniversary party was being held at the Ashford Hotel in Boston.
Champagne wall.
String quartet.
Two hundred guests.
A ballroom Dad had proudly described as “the room where people finally see what we built.”
At 6:47 p.m., my phone rang.
Olivia.
I almost ignored it.
“Hannah,” she said when I answered. Her
