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Cam is quiet. Then he asks, “Anything else I need to hear before somebody plays it for me?”

“No threats, Cam.”

“Good. Keep it that way. He has a show that needs listeners. Don’t give him your voice to advertise it with.”

“I’m supposed to let him talk about her like that?”

“You already called him. Now stop helping him.”

I check the mirror. The car behind me has been riding too close for miles. I let it pass instead of making something else my problem.

Cam says, “I’m still trying to finish this deal. I need you answering my calls.”

“I answered this one.”

“A beautiful start.”

“Anything change?”

“Nothing I can give you tonight. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

After we hang up, I keep driving. When I get home, I send Giselle one more message. I write it once, take out the part asking her to call, and read what remains.

Me: I should have called you before I let anybody speak about you. I’m sorry. I won’t keep asking when you’re ready. When you are, call me.

I leave the phone on the kitchen counter and go take a shower. It is still there when I come back. So is the message, with nothing beneath it.

Chapter 23

Giselle

By Wednesday morning, I have cleaned the refrigerator twice. The second time I remove a shelf that has survived twelve years without requiring my attention. I wash it, dry it, and discover I cannot get it back in.

This seems unfair, considering the service I have just provided.

I set it on the counter and make coffee. Six days since the picture spread, five since I spoke to Jarrett. I have answered clients, Rae, a delivery driver who could not find the number on my house. I have even called the tailor and collected the dress. It hangs upstairs in its plastic bag, properly fitted and entirely without plans.

Jarrett’s last message came Saturday night.

I should have called you before I let anybody speak about you. I’m sorry. I won’t keep asking when you’re ready. When you are, call me.

He has done what he said. I resent how much I miss the interruption.

At nine, Marcy calls from the print shop about a vendor payment. I pull up the account and find the problem while she explains what Prewitt thinks the problem is. These are different things. We spend half an hour getting the supplier the right information, then she asks whether I want to tell him it is settled.

“You can have that pleasure.”

“He’s going to want to explain what happened.”

“He explained it to both of us yesterday.”

“He has a new explanation.”

I laugh. Marcy does, too. We finish the call without her asking whether I am all right. I sit with that small kindness before opening the next file.

I do two hours of useful work. Then I reorganize a folder that did not need it. By the time Di calls, I am considering whether the refrigerator shelf would go in if I took out the drawer beneath it.