Monday brought the Lexus back. A driver in a dark suit, naturally, because Vivienne had explicitly been asked not to send someone in a suit and Vivienne responded to explicit requests the way cats responded to closed doors. The driver handed me the keys with the solemnity of a man delivering nuclear launch codes, then disappeared into a town car that had been following him the entire way from Long Island. Mrs. Delgado watched the whole exchange from her window and made the sign of the cross.
Tuesday was the diner.
Diana showed up seven minutes early, which was either a new leaf or an overcompensation for eighteen years of chronic lateness. She wore a sundress that didn't match the October weather and sat in the booth with her hands wrapped around a coffee mug like she needed something to hold onto. Iris ordered pancakes. I ordered black coffee and the ability to feel nothing, but the diner only carried the first one.
