Two months later, we meet at the Cactus Flower Market—the kind of place where every vendor knows your name if you’ve got the right last name. Elaine’s in a cream silk blouse, sunglasses hooked into the collar, her lipstick the exact shade of malice. She’s leaning against a counter at the fresh flower stall when I walk up.
She hands me a paper cup, still warm. “Prickly pear latte. I remembered.”
“Efficient,” I say, accepting it. “How’s your end?”
“Two more dates, one location.” She lowers her voice. “You’re getting close.”
I let my gaze drift over the stalls, the strings of lights, the couples who look like they’ve never had to wonder who their partner’s with at midnight. “Close enough.”
Her eyes search my face, looking for something. Maybe an opening. Maybe a crack.
“I won’t be a divorcée,” I say finally, the words clipped. Then, softer—but only just—“A “widow, maybe.”
The corner of her mouth lifts like she can’t decide if it’s a joke. “That’s dark, even for you.”
“Not if you think about it long enough,” I say, sipping the coffee.
Elaine studies me for a beat too long, her sunglasses still dangling from her fingers. “You really don’t scare easily, do you?”
I give her a small smile. “You’d be surprised what you can live through when the alternative’s worse.”
She laughs under her breath, the sound low and sharp, then turns toward the bouquet she’s been holding—white lilies, wrapped in pale green paper. Her fingers adjust the stems, and a strand of hair slips forward. She brushes it back with a sweep of her hand, and for some reason, my eyes track the movement longer than they should.
Her gaze flicks up, catching mine. Neither of us says anything, and the silence stretches just enough to notice.
She slides the lilies across the counter. “For you. Seemed fitting.”
I take them, feeling the weight and cool dampness against my palm. “Careful,” I say. “You might make me think you like me.”
Her smile curves slowly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Carrington.”
But she’s still watching me as I turn away, like she’s trying to figure out which part of that was a joke.
I set the lilies aside on the counter and pulled the diary from my bag. The worn cover creaks when I open it. “Page forty-seven. The charity dinner in Norfolk.”
Elaine doesn’t have to look—she remembers. “He left halfway through dessert after a phone call, and told me he was going home sick.”
She leans her hip against the counter, sipping her wine like this is a casual conversation. “I assume he went home to you.”
For a moment, we just stand there—the clink of her glass on the granite, the scratch of my pen on paper. Piece by piece, it’s becoming a map, and I can feel the edges closing in.
Elaine nods toward the growing stack of cards. “When you’re done playing archivist, what’s next?”
I close the diary, smoothing my palm over the cover. “Next, we find the one thing he can’t explain away. The thing that doesn’t just ruin him, it takes him off the board entirely.”
Her mouth curves into that sharp smile again. “Now that sounds like the fun part.”
We sit there for a moment, the weight of what we’ve just agreed to settling between us like smoke. The room feels smaller, charged. Outside, the cicadas drone on, oblivious.
Her words hang in the air, the low hum of the bar wrapping around them like velvet. I don’t look away, not right away, because there’s something in her eyes that isn’t just about Donovan.
I reach for my drink, give myself the excuse of a slow sip, but I still see it—the way her posture leans toward me now instead of away, the way her voice dips when she asks about my next move.
“Information first,” I say. “Then we decide when to use it.”
The air shifts, subtle but enough to make my pulse skip. We’re no longer two women circling the same target—we're leaning toward each other across the battlefield.
We leave the bar together, the desert night wrapping cool around us. The quiet out here feels heavier after the low murmur and clink of glasses inside.
