Wendy
After a late lunch, Sabrina never told the driver to head back toward Connecticut.
The black town car drifted deeper into Manhattan instead, weaving through narrow side streets slick with the remains of an earlier rainstorm.
Outside the tinted windows, the city blurred past in streaks of gray steel, glowing storefronts, and crowded sidewalks packed with people moving too quickly to notice one another.
I glanced over from the back seat. “We’re not going home?”
Sabrina’s lips curved slowly.
“Not yet.”
There was something mischievous in her expression that made her suddenly look younger. Lighter.
For the first time since the accident, she looked less like a perfectly polished socialite and more like someone remembering how to breathe.
Ten minutes later, the car rolled to a smoo
