I didn’t remember deciding to see her.
One minute, I was standing outside St. Catherine’s, the rain soaking through my clothes, the receptionist’s words still echoing in my head, you’re the third person asking about him, and the next, I was already in a cab, giving an address I knew too well.
Mrs. Calloway’s office.
If that woman in the footage was really her… then nothing made sense anymore.
“Traffic’s bad,” the driver said, glancing at me in the mirror. “You in a rush?”
“Yes,” I said. Then, after a second, softer, “Please.”
He nodded and leaned on the horn like that would somehow make the city move faster. It didn’t. Nothing ever does when you need it to.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes for a second. This has to be wrong. It had to be.
Mrs. Callowa
