Thirty-two days.
She had counted three times, standing in the bathroom at the Whitmore house with the specific stillness of someone hoping the number will change if they arrive at it carefully enough.
It didn’t change.
She had told herself, the first week, that stress did this. That the particular weight she had been carrying for months — Calla, the wedding, the arrangement, the penthouse, all of it — was sufficient to disrupt any cycle. She knew this was possible. She had experienced it before, in the worst months after her marriage, when her body had simply stopped cooperating with the calendar entirely.
She had filed it under: not yet a problem.
The second week she had filed it under: still possible.
The third week she had stopped filing it anywhere and started avoiding the though
