Beatrice.
One month later.
The mango was perfect—golden skin with just the right amount of give when I pressed my thumb against it. I held it up to the morning light filtering through the farmer's market canopy, checking for bruises.
"That's a good one, Miss Bea," Carlos said from behind his fruit stand. His weathered face crinkled into a smile. "Sweet like candy. My wife, she picked them herself this morning."
"I'll take three then." I smiled back, easy and natural. Beatrice Witherspoon smiled a lot. She was friendly. Uncomplicated. The kind of woman who chatted about mangoes and weather and nothing that mattered.
Nothing like Scarlett Pierre, who'd jumped off a bridge in London and drowned in the Thames.
Carlos bagged my mangoes along with the papaya and plantains I'd already selec
