restaurant. She said they missed me, that Harper had changed, that she was preparing for her wedding to the son of a powerful real estate family.
I should have known.
At dinner, Harper hugged me tightly, crying dramatic tears into my shoulder. She wasn’t apologizing.
She was stealing.
My spare driver’s license slipped quietly from my coat pocket into her hand.
Tonight, at exactly 9:14 p.m., Harper climbed into her fiancé’s SUV, completely drunk, and slammed into a minivan at an intersection.
She didn’t stop.
She ran.
But
