I photographed everything.
Every document.
Every itinerary.
Every message.
Every name attached to the plan.
By the time I closed the drawer and returned the key, the sky over Greenwich was turning pale.
I did not scream.
I did not cry.
There are moments when anger comes like fire.
And there are moments when it comes like ice.
Mine was ice.
I picked up my phone and called the Grand Bellafiore.
The operator was polite, elegant, and unaware that she was opening the door to a war.
When she confirmed that Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne were in residence, I almost laughed.
Mrs. Hawthorne.
How generous of Sloane to borrow not only my earrings, but my name too.