The Wrong Photo Arrived From Manhattan on Christmas Eve While My Twins Were Crying
The silver handle of her walking cane rested against her right knee, catching the orange firelight.
I laid my phone flat on the dark mahogany coffee table between us, showing the glowing image of the Plaza Hotel bed and the scanned printout of the Tiffany receipt.
Margaret didn’t pick up the phone.
She leaned forward, resting both hands on the silver head of her cane, her dark eyes moving slowly across the lit screen.
“Who is Sierra Vaughn?” she asked.
“Cole’s client relations consultant at Whitmore Capital,” I said.
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