Chapter 51She helped clear the table afterward, mostly to have something to do with her hands, and made her way upstairs a little after eight, already anticipating the quiet of her own room, the chance to finally sit down and check her phone properly, in private, without an audience.She opened her bedroom door and stopped dead in the frame.The room had been ransacked.There was no other word for it. Her closet doors hung open, half the contents pulled out and abandoned across the floor in a drift of fabric — dresses she recognized, dresses she didn't immediately recognize because they'd clearly been buried at the back for years, shoes kicked into a pile near the window, a single sequined jacket draped over her desk lamp like a lampshade. Her bed, which she had made that morning with the specific tidiness of a woman who did not have time in her life for an unmade bed, was buried under a fresh layer of discarded outfits, several of them clearly tried on and rejected, one still turned
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