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

once.

Her palm was warm.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice ringing clear, “Aurelia Wren is Evelyn Pierce.”

The room did not gasp all at once.

It rippled.

First the front row.

Then the donors.

Then the editors with their open mouths.

Then the back of the ballroom, where phones lifted like silver birds.

I saw Graham’s face lose color.

Not dramatically.continue reading …