Get in the car.”

“I drove here myself,” Megan said.

“Then drive yourself home.

Your father thinks you’re at the florist choosing ribbons.”

Megan’s hand went to her ring and stayed.

Cheryl turned to me, lipstick perfect, her voice clipped down to the size of a thimble.

“I don’t know what she gave you, and I don’t want to know.

You’ve got a business.