Chapter 2 - The Reshelving
I moved with the swift, practiced efficiency of someone reorganizing a reference cart.
If you had paused the airport security footage at that exact second—you would have captured a masterpiece of quiet, invisible retribution. In the image, I am kneeling on the terminal floor in my camel coat, my face a mask of absolute, unbothered calm. I have unzipped my black Samsonite, reached beneath my folded navy blouse, and extracted the unmarked, tape-sealed brown box. Beside me is Dana’s open designer tote. In the background, completely oblivious to the fact that his carefully constructed life is currently changing hands, Mark is facing away, talking on his cell phone, while Dana struts back toward us with her coffee.
I slipped the brown box deep into the bottom of Dana’s tote, burying it beneath a makeup bag and a rolled-up cashmere scarf.
I zipped my suitcase shut.
I stood up just as Mark ended his call and Dana returned.
May you like
"Ready?" Dana asked, sipping her latte.
"Ready," I smiled.
