Monday arrived with the particular grey determination of a day that had decided to be difficult before it started.
I woke at six, lay still for exactly four minutes cataloguing everything I needed to do before Tuesday, then got up and dressed in the dark. The house was quiet in the specific way it was quiet on weekday mornings before the domestic machinery of the Whitmore household engaged, staff arriving, breakfast preparations beginning, the low hum of a wealthy family’s daily infrastructure assembling itself floor by floor.
I had one thing to do before the Lucas meeting tomorrow.
The woman in Queens.
I had unfolded Sena’s note the night before and read it twice. Margaret Osei. A home address in Jackson Heights and a phone number with a Queens area code. No other information. Sena ha
