I took three quick, silent steps back toward the powder room and closed the door behind me. I ran the cold water over my wrists, trying to steady my breath in the small, tiled room.
When I came back out into the hallway ten minutes later, the study door was shut tight, but the library door at the end of the hall was open.
I walked into the library, where Garrett was standing by a low glass cabinet, holding a folded piece of fabric. He looked up, his crooked smile returning the moment he saw me, though he was still rubbing his left wrist.
“Look at this, Eleanor,” he said, holding out a long, narrow strip of blue linen. “Patricia bought this in Ireland back in ninety-four, and we never found the right spot for it.”
The linen was soft, dyed a deep cornflower blue with tiny white wildflowers embroidered along the edges.
“It would look lovely on the sideboard,” I said, touching the hem. “It has such a beautiful weight to it.”
