Rebecca’s POV
Olivia called at eight-seventeen in the morning.
I know the time precisely because I was in the middle of confirming the caterer, standing in the kitchen with the phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder and the catering proposal spread across the counter, and I had just noted the time on the oven display when my phone buzzed with her name and I switched calls immediately because Olivia did not call at eight-seventeen on a weekday without a reason.
“I need you to sit down,” she said.
I already didn’t like those words.
“I’m standing,” I said. “Tell me.”
“Rebecca.” The way she said my name, not even Becca, not the shorthand of twenty years of friendship, but the full name, the careful name, the one she used when she was about to hand me something heavy, made me put
