Eighty-five guests moved through the room in cocktail attire.
Women in tasteful dresses and pearls.
Men in sport coats and polished loafers.
Country club members.
Charity committee colleagues.
Old family friends.
People whose opinions shaped my mother’s entire identity.
I arrived in a navy sheath dress I had bought specifically for that moment. Professional. Composed. Unremarkable.
The USB drive was in my clutch.
Earlier that afternoon, I had spoken to the club’s AV technician under the pretense of helping with a birthday slideshow. The projector was ready. The screen was positioned perfectly.
Kyle spotted me first.
He was standing near the bar with Brittany, both of them laughing at something on his phone. He looked comfortable and confident, like a man who believed he had gotten away with something.
“Myra,” he said, waving me over. “Hey, glad you could make it. Mom’s been looking for you.”
I smiled.
