The elevator doors slide open.
I step into the hallway.
"Your dress is lovely." She follows me. "The shoes too."
"Not my usual morning gear."
"No? It suits you."
"Thank you." I unlock the door. Hold it open for her. The security in the building is good, top-notch, but if her husband is the kind of man who exists in this world—
Rich, powerful men find ways to break the rules.
"Give me a minute," I say.
After she steps inside, I check the bathroom—empty—and the bedroom—my second and third choice outfit are still sitting on the bed—then I return to the main room. Slip out of my shoes.
"Can I get you something to drink? I have tea. Coffee." Whole beans. The regular Lee used to drink. And the decaf she drinks now. "I'll have to grind it."
"Tea is fine."
I move into the kitchen, fill the kettle, find two cups in the pantry.
She sits at the dining table. Folds her hands in her lap. "Late night?"
"With a friend."
"He's a lucky man." She smiles softly. "Or woman. I shouldn't assume."
I check the tea selection. Not a lot of variety. I know what I like. "Do you prefer English Breakfast or Earl Grey?"
"Do you have milk?"
"I do."
"English Breakfast." She glances at her son, still sleeping in his stroller. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. It's just been a long time since I've talked with girlfriends."
"I imagine you have your hands full with your son."
"Yes."
Neither of us adds and your husband probably tried to isolate you from your friends. Did he do it by manipulating you into believing they didn't have your best interests at heart? Or did he use actual threats?
Maybe that isn't it.
Maybe it's something else. Something normal.
I've never had a team of girlfriends. I've always kept to myself. Spent my free time studying, reading, working.
Lee is my best friend. She's all the girlfriend I need.
But then Lee is a lot of girlfriend. She aces all the stereotypical tasks: Sunday brunch, boy talk, shopping, makeup, attire.
And she's my sister.
What's better than hanging out with your sister?
Lee is a force of nature. She's the one who insists I have girl talk in my life.
She shows up here every Sunday, without fail.
She sees me upset and demands an explanation.
I can't hide many things from her. But I can.
She knew about my eating disorder when we were kids. And, after, we'd laugh about how she was supposed to be the one with a fucked-up relationship to food.
She was the ballerina. How could I get on her turf?
And we'd laugh.
And then last year…
She doesn't know about that. But then it's not bad. It's just…
It is.
"My sister is better at girl talk," I say.
"Sisters always are."
"Do you have any?"
"A younger sister back home." She doesn't say where. "But we haven't been close in a long time."
She's not just scared.
She's lonely too.
I don't know what to say. Even if things were normal, if she was an acquaintance looking for company, I'd be out of my depths.
I try to channel Lee. A softer version of Lee.
"She asks about my love life too," I say. "She's a newlywed. Wants to see the entire world in love."
"I remember that time." She smiles sadly. "I'm sure you hear it all the time, but my husband, he was sweet when we met. He showered me with love."
That's common. The intensity. The obsession.
It happens so fast, people don't realize they're cut off from their friends and family.
Even if they can leave without danger, they have nowhere to go. No support. No affection. No love.
"I'm sure you can guess why I'm here," she says.
"No one's come to the front door."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Is it an imposition?"
Yes, and it's scary that she knew where to come. I try to be hard to find. It's necessary with my work. "How did you find the address?"
"A friend."
"Of your husband's?"
"No, no. He… I suppose there's no reason to dance around it, is there?"
The kettle hisses. Not a full steam, but warm enough, and I don't want to wake the baby. I pour water over the pyramid tea bags. Bring both cups to the table. Then a small carafe of milk. Honey. Spoons.
"Thank you." She wraps her hands around the ceramic mug, soaking in the warmth. "My friend knew your family."
"He knew them?"
"He passed."
A million possibilities fill my head, each more horrible than the last. Her husband, catching them in the act, strangling him with her bare hands, forcing her to watch, to clean after, to become an accomplice to his crime.
Finding him some other way.
Stalking him.
Hurting him.
Killing him.
Torturing her with his old clothes, letters, gifts.
I shouldn't be here.
Regina should be here. Regina can sit across from this woman and stay calm and helpful and not jump to conclusions.
"It was an accident," she says. "A car accident."
"In the city?" I bite my tongue. Not the question. I'm not a lawyer investigating her husband. I'm not here to pry.