They met back when she taught a seminar during Jessa’s third year of law school. Retta—the name Jessa was only recently given permission to call her—must have seen potential, because Jessa had been blessed with her wisdom, guidance, and no-nonsense opinions ever since.

Tonight, she’d been called to Retta’s house. Jessa wore that as a badge of honor. Not many people got invited into the private sanctuary Retta shared with her husband, Earl. Jessa usually met with Retta for a meal or coffee, or at the office. Jessa had only been in the Chevy Chase mansion one time before, and that was for a charity event. She couldn’t imagine living in a house with a ballroom on the second floor, but that was Retta’s life.

Jessa waited in the marble entryway as the person who opened the door—maybe a housekeeper—suggested. Fresh flowers in an intricate arrangement you might find at an expensive hotel sat in a vase that likely cost more than her car. She was about to touch the inlaid tiles on the entry table in front of her when a door to her left opened.

Retta smiled. “The call took longer than expected. I apologize. Come in, Jessa.”

Jessa followed Retta inside the library . . . or an office. Jessa wasn’t sure what the official name might be for a room filled with bookshelves with a desk at one end and a plush seating area at the other. A conservatory. A den. One of a rich person’s many spare rooms. Who knew?

“You’ve had a few difficult weeks,” Retta said as she sat in an oversized chair, wearing a bold red-and-black geometric-print dress, along with full jewelry and makeup.

She was not an informal, dressed-down kind of woman. Jessa couldn’t remember a time when Retta didn’t look perfect. She preached dress for success and lived it.

In her midfifties with twin boys away at prestigious Ivy League universities, Retta showed no signs of winding down. Everything about Retta screamed power and determination. She was outspoken in her belief that women could have it all and rolled her eyes whenever anyone mentioned a glass ceiling. She fought for what she had, and she held on to it with an unrelenting grip.

Jessa didn’t pretend to be confused by Retta’s comment. “You somehow know about my week even though the Bartholomews’ PR team kept the car crash out of the news.”

Jessa had waited for a scandal to break or word of Darren’s being arrested to leak out, but neither happened. In a phone call this morning, his attorney insisted the driveway incident was a misunderstanding. Ellie’s attorney wasn’t saying much of anything. Jessa still waited on a return call from Detective Schone with an actual explanation.

Retta reached for the water pitcher and a glass on the tray on the table between them. “Covington called me. He’s worried about you.”