22 faces turned toward Vivien. Crystal chandeliers cast warm honey light across the Hartwell estate’s formal dining room. The scent of roasted turkey mingled with cinnamon, cloves, and the sharp bite of winter air drifting through a cracked window.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a timer beeped. Α grandfather clock in the hallway chimed 7 times.
Vivien Hartwell pressed her hand against her swollen belly. She was 7 months pregnant and exhausted from the case she had just closed 3 days earlier. The Brennan kidnapping. 3 children recovered alive. 1 suspect in custody.
47 hours without sleep. She wanted nothing more than to be home in pajamas, eating leftover Chinese food and watching terrible reality television.
But Grant had insisted.
His hand had found hers that morning, his blue eyes pleading.
“Please, Viv. Thanksgiving with my family is not optional. Mom has been planning this for months.”
So she was there, stuffed into a maternity dress that made her feel like an overstuffed sausage, sitting at a table that cost more than her first car, surrounded by Hartwells and their perfect teeth, perfect hair, and perfect judgmental silences.
“Thank you, Dorothia,” Vivien said, keeping her voice warm. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
Her mother-in-law’s smile did not reach her eyes. It never did.
