Chapter 12: The Donor

"Give me ten minutes," I said. "My legs take a while."

Verity smiled.

"Take fifteen. I'll warm up the car."

I shut the door and texted Dez with my thumb shaking.

She's taking me. Now.

He answered before I'd set the phone down.

I know. We're on the street. Wear it.

On Monday he'd sewn a black button onto my parka himself, in his car at the end of the driveway.

He'd sworn at the needle the whole time.

I put on jeans and two sweaters and the parka.

Then I went down the curved stairs with one hand on the rail the whole way.

Verity's car was a white Range Rover with cream seats.

She'd turned the seat heater on for me.

She'd put a latte in my cup holder.

"Oat milk," she said. "I didn't know what you liked, so I guessed."

We drove west in the gray morning.

Verity talked the whole way.

About the gala, two weeks from tomorrow.

About the flowers, the band, the six hundred guests, the dress she'd picked for me, ice blue, long sleeves.

"So nobody stares," she said.

On the Eisenhower she went quiet.

Then she said, without looking at me, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Was it really that bad? Where you were?"

I looked at her.

She kept her eyes on the road.

"I mean, you knew who you were there. You had a job. People needed you." She shrugged. "Here, you're just the girl everybody feels sorry for."

I didn't answer.

The button on my coat heard every word.

The church was red brick with two towers and a gold cross.

Verity drove around the side and into the back lot.

It was nearly empty.

And at the far end, backed against the fence, a white van with painted windows.

My whole body went still.

I knew that van.

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