She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

around my waist.

I leaned into her for one second.

Just one.

Enough to feel the living warmth of what Graham had failed to sever.

The months that followed did not feel like victory.

They felt like surgery.

Necessary.

Bloody.

Slow.

Every account had to be traced.

Every deed challenged.

Every false email preserved.

Every trustee vote examined.

Every doctor letter continue reading …