It was about 1:39 p.m. when I finally set out for the brunch venue with Nick.

I phoned George this time.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Victoria,” he began in his usual dead tone, the one he used whenever he was highly provoked. “Where are you?”

I took a quick glance around. “At the zebra crossing on Pollock Avenue.”

“Wait for me there,” he instructed. “Tell Nick to park the car.”

Then he hung up.

My tongue clung to the roof of my mouth this time.

I had nothing to say. His tone carried a clearly hidden warning, and despite how rebellious I felt, I didn’t dare have...