Yvette had spent the morning calling.
She'd called Julian's office twice and been put through to a polite assistant both times, who promised to relay the message. She'd called a number she still had from Kalian, an old contact from years back, hoping he might at least agree to see her face-to-face, hear her out, let her say the things she'd practiced saying for three years.
He'd refused.
Plainly, without much explanation. Not interested in opening that door again, the message back had said, relayed through someone else, not even him directly.
She'd stood in the prison's visitor parking lot afterward, phone still warm in her hand, feeling the old fury try to rise in her and finding, to her own surprise, that it didn't rise as high as it used to.
Three years of therapy had filed something down in her. Not the wanting. Just the speed at which it used to take over.
