22
Katherine
Whitley didn’t have an open appointment until the next day at four thirty. It was technically a twenty-minute consultation, but Whit had just told Lark to book it. She didn’t even seem surprised. Apparently, she had been waiting for me to move over to her practice.
Of course, Lark hadn’t told her why I was really going in. I was the one who was going to have to deliver that shock. My stomach was in knots about it. Even though it was the right thing to do. It was the only actionable thing we’d come up with anyway.
I was wearing my armor for this meeting. After a professional blowout and a full face of makeup, I’d changed into a cowl-neck cashmere sweater over black leggings and thigh-high black boots. I’d paired it with a gray peacoat with gold buttons and a snakeskin bag.
