We are locked in that weird stare again. She looks possessed. I should get up and leave. But she looks so deliciously vulnerable, so misplaced, a part of me wants to see what she’ll do next. And since when do I give two shits about what people do? Coolly, I stand up, grab my hardcover, finish the last of my wine, pivot on my heel, and walk away. Mrs. Ashcroft might have a problem on her hands. But it isn’t mine to fix.
