Chapter 18: Friday at Eight

"Put Preston on the phone," I said.

I heard Bree walk across her flat, and then his voice came on, thin and tired.

"Claire?"

"Is the doctor in the room?"

"She's on the couch. She's been very polite."

"Then let her ask you whatever she wants," I said. "Answer plainly. You're not afraid of her."

"I'm a bit afraid."

"Answer anyway."

Forty minutes later Bree texted me a photograph of Honora's back going down the stairs with the doctor a step behind her.

The doctor had written two words on her clipboard and underlined them: Fully competent.

At seven fifty the next morning I walked into the boardroom on the 46th floor in my grey blazer.

Nine chairs sat around the long table, and the board chair sat at the head of it with a folder he didn't open.

Honora sat at his right in cream, with her pearls and her lawyer beside her.

She smiled when she saw me.

It was the warm smile she had given me at my own wedding.

Ronan sat at the far end with his hands folded on the glass.

He didn't look at me, and I didn't look at him, and my whole body knew exactly where he was.

"We are here," said the chair, "for a special session under section nine."

Honora stood.

"Mr. Chairman, I take no pleasure in this. I loved my husband's son from the day I met him."

I almost laughed.

She laid the photographs on the table, one by one.

The roof first.

Then the second set, the lobby elevator, with his hand at my waist and my face turned up.

Someone at the table drew in a breath.

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