(Sean's POV)
I rinse the teapot. The water keeps running. Clear, steady.
"It turns out it only ever existed once, Mother," I say. To the sink. The sink is a safe place to say it. The sink does not have opinions. "And I salted the earth myself."
I turn off the water.
The drip from the faucet is the only sound in the room.
"Let the matter rest."
She stands there. Her hand is still flat on the counter. Her rings are still catching light. She does not reach for the tea.
She picks up the folio. She closes it. The leather folds over the profiles — the senator's daughter, the gallerist, the widowed heiress — and tucks them back into darkness. She slides it under her arm and walks out the door.
The apartment stays quiet after she leaves. I stand in the kitchen for three minutes — I count t
