I opened the rear door and got in.
The leather was cold beneath my soaked skirt. David slid behind the wheel. Cecilia reclined the passenger seat and turned toward the window, but I caught her reflection in the glass.
That smile again.
“Is the heat okay, Cece?” David asked.
Cece.
Not Cecilia.
“Maybe a little warmer,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling. I feel awful.”
I stared at the back of her head.
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
David’s eyes flashed in the rearview mirror. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
The storm swallowed Manhattan in silver sheets. He asked her if she needed water, gum, a mint, his jacket.
He never asked if I was cold.