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

and murmured something.

Celeste laughed, a low bright sound.

Then the moderator tapped the microphone.

The ballroom stilled.

“Good evening,” she said.

“On behalf of the Rutherford Literary Society, thank you for joining us for our winter salon.”

Applause moved through the room like silk being shaken open.

I remained in the aisle.

No one asked me to move.

Somewhere continue reading …