“Of course,” I murmured, letting the compliance drop like a lead weight
My mother crossed her arms, a terrifying portrait of maternal satisfaction. “Excellent. There’s a spare camping cot in the utility closet. Try to keep your mess contained to the perimeter. Julian parks his Audi in the center.”
Julian let out a low, breathy chuckle, clearly entertained by the prospect of the grieving widow being banished to the concrete slabs.
I turned on my heel without another syllable and marched up the stairs. I packed clinically. Three pairs of maternity trousers. Five blouses. My heavy-duty server laptop. And finally, David’s silver dog tags, which I wore around my neck like a shield.
Dragging my suitcase back down the stairs, I walked out the side door, stepping into the freezing, oil-stained cavern of the garage.
I sat on the canvas camping cot, the icy dampness immediately seeping through my clothes. I placed a protective hand over my stomach. The humiliation clawed desperately at my throat.
