POV: Sandra
I've been back to the private viewing twice since that first night, always the same excuse to Catherine, always the same card tucked into my coat pocket like a secret I'm not ready to give up. Julian never asks where I disappear to for those two hours. He just hands me a glass of wine I don't drink and starts talking about whatever's new on the walls, like picking up a conversation we never actually finished.
My phone rings on a Tuesday morning, coffee going cold on the counter, and his name on the screen pulls me out of the fog faster than the caffeine has managed all week.
"Sandra." His voice carries that same easy warmth from the night I stood in front of What Remains and told him I couldn't decide if it was brave or a mistake. "Tell me you're free to talk."
"Depends on
