The boardroom door clicked behind Ethan like a judgment. In the corridor, Amelia stood at a window with a paper cup, the city indifferent and bright beyond the glass.
“Don't walk," he said.
She didn't turn. “Then talk fast."
He closed the distance until his reflection joined hers in the pane. “Where have you been."
“Working."
“For three years," he said. “No phone. No address. No—"
“You blocked the last hallway I was in," she said. “I learned to take others."
“Why didn't you call me," he pressed, as if volume could rearrange history. “After—" His throat worked. “After St. Luke's."
She set the cup on the sill. “Because the person who should have called me was with a woman practicing how to faint."
His jaw ticked. “Where is she buried."
Amelia's shoulders stiffened. “Who."
“Emma,"
