The mansion had never felt so vast or so silent. I moved through the hallway with a cardboard box in my hands.
Thirty-seven years of marriage, and now I was packing my late husband’s things away piece by piece.
I paused at the bookshelf and touched the spine of a worn paperback. We had bought it together in that tiny college apartment, back when his first hotel was nothing but a sketch on a napkin and a terrifying loan.
My phone rang, sharp and intrusive.
I was packing my late husband’s things away piece by piece.
“Alice? This is Mr. Sterling, your husband’s attorney.”
