"Daniel Torres. MIT grad, built his company from scratch, sold it for eight figures. Single. No scandal. Clean record." She pauses. "Also, he's attractive. Just thought you should know."
"Why would I need to know that?"
"Because you're human and you've been dead for five months and maybe noticing that someone is attractive would be good for you."
"I'm not interested in dating."
"I didn't say date him. I said notice him. There's a difference." She pulls out the meeting notes, ends the conversation before I can argue. "He's interested in funding three full-time attorneys. That's huge for us. We need this."
The meeting happens in the foundation's conference room—a generous term for the room with a table and six chairs—andDaniel Torresis exactly what Solange described. Attractive in a specific way: expensive watch, understated suit, the kind of confidence that comes from building something from nothing. He shakes my hand, offers condolences about Gabriel that sound rehearsed but not insincere, and listens while Solange and I present our vision for expansion.
He asks good questions. Wants to know about success rates, overhead costs, how we vet attorneys, what safeguards we have against fraud. I answer them all, and somewhere during the presentation, I realize I'm not performing. I'm just... talking. About something I care about. Something that matters.
When the meeting ends, he commits to funding two attorneys for the first year, with the possibility of expanding if outcomes meet expectations.
"This is important work," he says, standing to leave. He looks at me directly when he says it, and there's something in his eyes that might be respect. "I'm glad you're doing it."
After he leaves, Solange grins. "That went well. And you noticed he was attractive, right?"
"I noticed he might fund our expansion."
"Sure. That's what you noticed." She's still grinning when she adds, "You were good in there. You were confident and present. I haven't seen you like that in months."
"I had a purpose."
"Maybe you should find more purposes." She leans against her desk, expression shifting from teasing to serious. "How are you really doing, Lana?"
"I'm fine."
"You said that on the phone yesterday and it was a lie then too."
I consider telling her about the invitation. About going back to The Dominion on Friday, tomorrow. About the camera I looked at and the way being watched felt less like violation and more like being seen. But I don't know how to explain it without sounding damaged in ways that would worry her.
"I'm managing," I say instead. "Some days are harder than others."
"And therapy? You're still going?"
"Twice a week. Dr. Cross thinks I'm making progress."
"What does progress look like?"
Good question. I've been asking Dr. Cross the same thing.
"It looks like showing up to donor meetings," I say. "And remembering to eat. And not spending all day wondering if I killed my husband."
Solange's face does something complicated. We don't talk about this often—the uncertainty, the gaps in my memory, the way the police ruled Gabriel's death accidental, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm guilty of something even if I don't remember what.
"You defended yourself," she says finally. "However it happened, you were defending yourself."
"You don't know that."
"I know Gabriel. I know what he was capable of. And I know you wouldn't have pushed him unless you had to."
I want to believe her. But belief requires certainty, and certainty is the one thing I don't have.
I leave the office at 3 PM, drive back to my apartment through traffic that barely registers, spend the evening the same way I spent yesterday: reading without comprehending, eating without tasting, existing without quite living.
At 9 PM, I take out the invitation again. Read it one more time.
