I looked down at my long-sleeved silk blouse, feeling the fabric rub against the thick, uneven skin on my left shoulder.

The scars felt tight tonight, like a leather strap pulled too close across my chest.

I took a slow breath, tasting the scent of cut grass and expensive cedar mulch.

I put my phone in my pocket.

My fingers were cold, and they shook slightly as I grazed the key fob.

I did not lock the car.

I knew I would be returning to it soon.

I walked down the side path of the house, where the hydrangeas grew thick and blue in the shadows.

The leaves brushed against my jeans, leaving wet streaks on the denim.

As I rounded the corner of the garage, the bright lights of the pool area hit me.

Underwater LEDs turned the pool into a glowing sheet of turquoise glass.

About thirty people were scattered across the flagstone patio.

They wore summer dresses and linen shirts, holding thin-stemmed glasses filled with prosecco.

My mother stood near the outdoor kitchen, her hand resting on the shoulder of a woman I didn’t recognize.