I’d just severed twenty-eight years of hoping things would change—of believing that if I was patient enough, quiet enough, good enough, my parents would eventually see me and love me the way they loved Josephine.

That hope was dead now. I’d killed it myself.

The elevator descended forty-two floors. By the time it reached the lobby, I’d wiped my eyes and straightened my borrowed blazer.

Jonathan Woods was waiting by the security desk. “That was—” he searched for the word, “remarkable,” he said.

“It was necessary,” I said.

“Your grandmother would agree,” he said. He fell into step beside me as I walked toward the exit. “What happens now?” he asked.