I stared out the window.
The garden was bright with afternoon sunlight.
A gardener was pruning the roses along the driveway.
Life beyond the house looked painfully ordinary.
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“At the hotel. I’m staying in a separate room.”
“And Sabrina?”
“She’s with her parents.”
I nodded.
“We need to talk in person.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I looked toward the silver-gray wig resting on its stand.
“Come tomorrow.”
Michael arrived the following morning carrying a paper bag of pastries.
He’d been bringing me pastries since he was a teenager, usually when he wanted forgiveness for something.
This time, I left the bag unopened.
He sat opposite me in the sunroom.
His wedding ring caught the light as he folded his hands.
“I asked Sabrina to tell me everything,” he said. “She admitted bringing the trimmer, entering your room, and leaving the note. She knows you’ve reported it.”
“Has she spoken with the police?”
“Her attorney is arranging that.”
I nodded.
“Did she say anything else?”
Michael hesitated.
“She said she grew up feeling invisible beside people with more money. She spent months being introduced as the woman marrying the Langford heir. She wanted one day when nobody compared her to you.”
I listened.
“She thought controlling the wedding would make her feel important,” he continued. “And she thought if you weren’t there, she’d finally have a moment where everyone was focused on her.”
“Did you know she felt that way?”
“Some of it. She complained that people always asked about your buildings before asking about her work.”
Sabrina had built a respectable career as an interior designer. She had talent, clients, and ambitions of her own.
