Emotional strain.
There had been similar remarks for months.
At dinner parties, Mark joked about my forgetfulness.
When I misplaced my keys, he told friends I was having memory problems.
After I cried over a medical bill, he suggested I needed psychiatric medication.
I’d believed he was worried about me.
Now I wondered whether he had been preparing other people to doubt me.
The next morning, Miriam arranged a meeting in a private conference room at her office.
Vanessa arrived ten minutes early.
She was twenty-eight, with dark brown eyes, thick chestnut hair, and a small crescent-shaped scar near her left eyebrow.
She wore jeans, a navy sweater, and flat shoes.
There was nothing dramatic about her entrance.
She simply stopped in the doorway and looked at me.
For a moment, something flickered across her face.
Then she recovered.
“Mrs.
Carter?”
“Emily is fine.”
She nodded.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
