the service elevator opened.
A gray-haired driver named Thomas waited beside two car seats arranged by Mr. Harris so I wouldn’t need to carry ours through the garage alone.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
I looked at him, then back toward the apartment.
“Lauren is fine.”
He nodded.
“Lauren.”
By five, Noah and Lily were safely strapped into a black SUV.
Cole could no longer access my protected accounts.
My documents rested in a leather bag by my feet.
My children were beside me.
We drove north through falling snow.
I didn’t look
