Amara's day

Amara met Patricia at a coffee shop in Mamaroneck, the kind of place designed to feel approachable while charging fourteen dollars for an oat milk latte. She asked about Margot's relationship with her parents—what was the household like, how did Robert relate to his daughter. Patricia's answer was a rehearsed paragraph about how close-knit the family was. How loving. How Margot had always been sensitive—artistic, they called it. Amara filed that word away. Artistic. She asked about Margot's therapist. Patricia's face went flat for half a second before the mask returned. They were exploring options, she said. Amara ordered another coffee she didn't need and kept asking questions that went nowhere. When she left, she drove past the Hargrove house in Armonk—not stopping, just looking. A gate. A long driveway. Windows that let light in but kept the inside invisible. She wrote in her notebook: The family is not what they're selling.