A young waiter with a swooping 1950s hairdo came over, and I ordered an old-fashioned for Trey and for me a pale Viognier, sister to the wine Trey had bought for me all those years ago at the High Museum. I should have coffee, I thought. My eyes felt full of sand, and my whole body hurt. But I wanted that honeysuckle taste in my mouth, sweet and rich, reminding me of our good history.

Across the courtyard the garage’s glass doors swished open, and a middle-aged couple holding hands came out. They headed toward Haven. Behind them I caught a glimpse of yellow hair and wide eyes watching me, predatory, so cold for one so young. I closed my eyes. The doors swished closed. When I looked again, there was no one behind the glass.

Yet I could still feel her gaze, haunted and haunting, waiting for me to betray her. Waiting for me to take any olive branch Trey offered even if it meant forgetting I had ever seen that picture.

I shook my head no. I was playing a role, being the same Bree I’d shown my children today, elegant and secure. The one who now knew exactly how to pronounce the name of the wine I’d just ordered. She was a true person. She was me. Still, I knew better than anyone that the human body could hold two truths at once. Inside, the girl Coral had recognized lived on. Betsy’s best friend. My mother’s daughter.

Both could accept what Trey had done. Both could forgive him. But the girl I had long been at the root of me could not live with his denial of it. I made a silent vow to the ghost of Lexie’s youth and promise, the one I could still feel watching. I would never ask Marshall to burn the other copies. I would not forget.

The drinks came. I took a sip of wine. Trey and Mills came out of his tall office building, splitting so Mills could go join his partner at the bar. Trey came to my table, his face unreadable. He sat down across from me.

I could still feel Lexie’s gaze. I closed my eyes. Drank again, more deeply. I’d spent a lot of time on my makeup, but I wanted to scrub hard at my grainy, heated eyes. I made myself keep one hand on my napkin, the other on my wine. The last time I’d taken such care with my appearance, I’d been heading to his firm’s Spring Gala to murder his old friend.

“Hi,” my husband said.

“Hi.”

The waiter was back. Trey told him we might order dinner later. “For now bring us a cheese plate and some of those marinated olives.” The waiter whooshed away. I looked at my husband, and he looked back. He spoke first.