I told her about Vincent, too, though I imagined she would have raised one eyebrow at the name.

“I didn’t fall in love with a dangerous man just because he offered me money,” I said.

“You’d be relieved about that.”

A breeze moved through the branches.

I laughed softly at my own voice.

I also told her about the hard things: the nights when I still checked the locks twice, the anger I felt when people congratulated Vincent for surviving but barely mentioned the employees who had been threatened, the complicated way grief could return on an otherwise happy morning.

There was no answer.