Ted had never lusted for the desirable address, the cocoon of wealth. He hadn’t dreamed of owning half a dozen networks or vacation properties like the ones in Montana and St. Marten the papers said he had. Now that she’d seen Stabler Studios, it didn’t surprise her that his home didn’t have any curb appeal either, just the sheen of money. All of this privilege had come to Ted unbidden, like ants following a trail laid out before them, obeying the laws of nature. And while Phoebe stood on the picket line this spring, his union argued for his right to fly first class on every job. Phoebe sat forward in the Lyft, resentment knotting up in her chest, its jagged edges poking at her ribs. Ted wasn’t in his office on the lot, he was right there, on the other side of that gate. She could run away again, but she was sick of feeling so afraid. She was sick of feeling that her anger and shame might pull her under.

No. She would use these feelings, burn them for fuel.

She tipped the driver on the app and got out, and he left her there, standing outside the gate with no idea if it would open for her. She felt like an idiot bending over to speak into the car-height intercom.

“May I speak with James Washington?” she asked. She smiled quickly, in case the little dot at the top of the intercom was a camera, and then stepped back.

She didn’t ask for Ted because only a stalker would show up outside the Stabler mansion, without an appointment, and expect a response. And yet here she was, no appointment, no invitation, trying to charm a computer on a stick.

The intercom squawked, “Name?”

Why should the past be her burden alone? Let Ted answer for Jerry’s crimes, for a change. Let his beautiful wife’s cheeks burn hot with disgrace. The Stablers wouldn’t last a day in Phoebe’s life. It was time for Ted to feel, for once, the pressure Phoebe lived with constantly.

“Phoebe Lee to see James Washington,” she said forcefully.

No one answered.

She was going to have to call another car to come get her. She was going to have to go back to the motel to change out of this too-much dress, and once she did that, she wasn’t going to make it to the meetup or the happy hour. She wouldn’t make it past her own failure when she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

But now she heard a click, a hum, and the gate started to roll. Was this actually happening? The butterflies in Phoebe’s stomach swarmed.

Before Phoebe could enter the property, a young man approached from the other side of the gate, shoulders back, brows furrowed.

“I’m sorry, we don’t receive visitors without an appointment,” he said.