She wore beige heels, a fitted coat, and the expression of a woman trying hard to appear sympathetic while secretly thrilled to have been chosen for the scene. Her hair was perfectly smooth. Her lipstick too careful. When she saw me looking, something flickered across her face—not guilt, not exactly, but discomfort at being forced out of rumor and into consequence.
So that was it. No more vague suspicion. No more odor of denial. No more wondering whether I had imagined signs because grief makes women creative in the wrong directions.
The affair stood ten feet away in nude pumps.
Margaret touched my elbow. “Eyes forward.”
But my body had already absorbed the information. I felt sick and cold and strangely clear at once. Mark noticed me then, and instead of shame, he looked irritated. As if my seeing Kelly here was an inconvenience to his strategy, not the obscenity it was.
Lily had followed my gaze.
She stared at Kelly for a long moment, then at Mark, then lowered her eyes.
When the bailiff opened the doors, we went in.