DEMETRIA
I looked back just as I heard the voice calling out to Marion. Oh, perfect! The same two women I’d run into at the grocery store, and again at the club. Paula’s so-called friends. Trouble in designer heels.
“Marion Whitfield,” one of them crooned, the blonde. Her lips curved into a sly smile. The other with ginger hair, clutched a Dior bag like a trophy, eyes flicking to me and narrowing just slightly.
“Ladies,” Marion said smoothly, voice calm, detached, as if he were addressing strangers on the street. His arm brushed mine lightly, the smallest gesture, but enough to remind me he wasn’t rattled.
“Shopping for Paula today?” the first one asked, tilting her head. Her tone was sweet, but the sugar was poisoned. “She’ll love whatever you pick.”
My stomach tightened. So this is
