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

word.

I almost laughed.

I almost sobbed.

Instead, I pressed my fingers to my lips until the moment passed.

Mara Whitcomb stood behind Margot with a leather folder under her arm.

Mara was sixty-three, silver-haired, narrow-eyed, and the only attorney I had ever met who could make silence feel like a locked door.

“You held,” she said.

It was the highest praise continue reading …