The engine hummed beneath her, but Madeline barely noticed the road.
She hadn’t even bothered to change.
Her robe was still haphazardly tied over silk pajamas, the sash twisted where trembling fingers had fumbled it. Her blonde hair—normally soft, immaculate, curled to perfection—hung in a loose bun, barely clinging to the pins like her composure. Smudges of mascara shadowed her under-eyes, lashes clumped from tears she hadn’t let fall yet.
It wasn’t far. Just a few houses down.
Maggie’s home sat like a watercolor postcard—white picket fence, flower boxes spilling ivy and purple petunias, and shutters painted a cheerful robin’s egg blue that were charmingly chipped at the corners. The screen door squeaked in the breeze, the porch swing tilted slightly from where someone had left it mid
