The funeral.
The hand held in the dark.
The plan made in the light.
All of it compressed into two words that were too small for what they were trying to carry.
But Vivien understood they were the most honest thing Camille Rhodes had said to her in a very long time.
Vivien looked at her for a long moment.
Long enough for Camille to understand that the answer was being genuinely considered.
Not performed.
Not weaponized.
Not withheld for effect.
Actually considered.
By a woman who took words seriously because she had learned, at great cost, what it meant when the people you trusted did not.
“I know,” Vivien said.
And then, and this was the unthinkable thing, the thing none of them had predicted, the thing Derek heard about secondhand an hour later and sat alone with for the rest of the afternoon,
Vivien reached into her bag and placed a single folded card in Camille’s hand.
It was the card of a counselor.
A good one.
Someone Vivien herself had seen in the months after the church, in the quiet, unglamorous work of rebuilding a person from the inside.
There was no note attached.
No message.
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