Amara's day

Amara drove to the Hargrove house in Armonk and parked where she had sightlines to the driveway and the side entrance. She wasn't breaking in—not yet. She was watching. She saw Margot come home from school at three-fifteen, backpack slung over one shoulder, walking to the front door like she was carrying something heavy. Robert Hargrove came home at five-forty and didn't leave again that night. Patricia's car was already in the driveway. The house was quiet. Then at six-fifteen, Amara saw them through the kitchen window: Robert standing too close to Margot. Not touching—not in any way that would show in a photograph. But close. Too close. And Margot's posture, the way she folded in on herself, the way she stepped back and Robert stepped in. Amara's hands were shaking on the steering wheel. She drove home to Harlem and sat on her kitchen floor with the notebook open in front of her and felt the case she'd been handed turn to ash in her hands.