(Sean's POV)
The shirts come back from the dry cleaner Wednesday.
I pull one from the plastic sleeve and hold it up. White. Pressed. Almost right. The collar stays are crooked — tilted a quarter inch to the left, both of them, like someone fed them through a machine instead of pressing them by hand. The fold line at the collar is off. Not dramatic — a civilian wouldn't catch it. I do, because for six years the fold was exact, and my hands remember exact even if my brain never catalogued it.
I stand in front of the mirror and pull the shirt on. The collar sits wrong. It lifts on one side. I smooth it. It lifts again. The stays won't hold because they were pressed at the wrong angle — a thing Rebecca knew. The trick. The pressure. The exact sweep of the iron she did every morning before I
