Not because she was afraid of falling.
Because for a moment, after six months under his roof, she forgot what freedom sounded like.
Then she heard the back door bang open downstairs, heard his wife call, “Dean? What’s happening?” and something in Vivian hardened like old candy in a dish.
She grabbed her handbag, hiked up her linen slacks, and kept moving.
She did not answer him.
For six months, Dean had answered everything for her.
He answered the pharmacist.
He answered the banker.
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