They got back through the gates before the second wave of vans finished parking.
Security closed the iron behind them with a sound that was meant to be final and was only metal. Aria did not run. Running would have given the lenses the image they still wanted a woman fleeing her own sentence.
She walked the drive with Damien half a step ahead of her, his jacket already coming off, his phone already in his ear, the CEO arriving in pieces because the father had used up the morning.
Inside, the entrance hall was too bright. The painting on the far wall still cost more than Gladys’s house. Aria catalogued it anyway. She catalogued the jam still on the kitchen table when they passed it. She catalogued Mrs. Park’s hands, which had started to shake and then stopped, because Mrs. Park had been
