I called for the car.

And I walked out of the house I had shared with Flynn Vance for six years with the strange lightness of a person who has finally set down a weight so familiar she had stopped noticing she was carrying it.

“Thank you,” I told the liaison, gently, because none of this was her fault.

“I think there’s been a mix-up in your records.

I’ll make sure the right people sort it out today.”