SHANTEL’S room no longer looked like a bedroom. It looked like a war room.
The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing only a filtered stream of evening light to spill across the floor. On the bed lay printed photographs— Amelia stepping out of her car, Amelia at the resort café on a Tuesday afternoon, Amelia at a charity gala, poised and untouchable. Each picture had tiny notes scribbled beneath them in red ink.
**Tuesdays — 2:15 p.m. — corner seat.
Prefers latte. No sugar.
Usually alone.
Assistant sometimes calls at 2:40 p.m.**
Her desk was worse.
Magazines featuring Amelia’s interviews were stacked in uneven piles. One was flipped open to a page where Amelia spoke about resilience and rebuilding after betrayal. Shantel had underlined a sentence so hard the paper nearly tore.
*“Tru
