I walked back to my car, the cold sea air stinging my face.

The drive back to Boston was a blur of highway lines and dark thoughts.

I pulled into the driveway of my brick mansion in Beacon Hill.

The lights inside were warm, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder, the screen illuminating the dark interior of the car.

The caller ID showed Celeste’s name.

I let it ring until it went silent, the screen fading to black.

My hand shook slightly as I gripped the steering wheel, staring at the grand brick facade of my home.

I turned off the engine.

The silence of the Beacon Hill street settled over me like a heavy shroud.

I got out of the car, my boots crunching on the thin layer of salt on the driveway.

The front door opened before I could reach for my keys.

Celeste stood in the warm light of the entryway, wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater.

She held a glass of white wine in her hand.

“You’re late,” she said, her eyes scanning my face.