She didn't go to bed when she got home.
She had showered and changed—the specific, unhurried ritual of washing the evening off, the white suit hung with the particular care it deserved, the gala and the applause and Ray's hand and Liam's face all going down the drain with the hot water. She came out clean and quiet and wrapped in the particular stillness of someone who had decided the night wasn't finished with her yet.
She made tea she didn't really want and took it to her desk and opened her laptop and got to work.
The recordings from Ray's sessions were organized by date, labeled with the clinical efficiency she brought to everything that lived in this folder. She put her earphones in and started from the beginning of the week's sessions, a notepad open beside her, pen in hand.
Ray's voice filled her ears.
