The rest of the workday passed in fragments I could not hold.

Every time the corridor outside my office went quiet I heard Ben's voice breaking on my name. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his hands stop in the air when I flinched. By late afternoon the guilt had become physical - a pressure under the sternum that made ordinary tasks feel like performance. When the floor finally thinned I told my driver to wait at the building. I did not explain. I took a separate car and gave Ben's address before I could talk myself out of it.

One thing was certain. I don't trust the...