Saturday morning, Camille arrived at the Harper estate wearing sunglasses large enough to conceal a criminal identity.
"Get dressed."
I looked down at my silk pajamas. "Good morning to you, too."
"You've spent two days staring at your phone. We're going out."
"I have not been staring at my phone."
"Wonderful. Then you won't mind leaving it in your handbag."
I considered arguing. Unfortunately, Camille had already marched upstairs and begun judging my wardrobe.
Twenty minutes later, I was wearing a cream dress, pearl earrings, and the determined expression of a woman being kidnapped by her best friend for her own benefit.
"Where are we going?"
"Sable Wharf. Shopping, lunch, and absolutely no brooding over emotionally constipated billionaires."
"That's a remarkably specific prohibition."
"I know my audience."
