In her haste to get to Greg, she’d torn out of the house without grabbing a jacket. During the autumn months in New York, a jacket was as necessary as shoes. The only sound during the miserable fifteen-minute ride had been Matilda’s hoarse crying and the steady click of the taxicab’s meter. Sarah focused on breathing in and out, regulating her heartbeat, and trying to calm her mind. Chanting the words in her head, she repeated, He’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay. She tried to stay positive, thinking about all the things that made Greg special. It was a long list. Matilda wasn’t able to shed light on what had happened, so Sarah was left to guess. She had a strong suspicion that Cassandra was involved somehow. Who else? Cassandra was the last person he’d been with before the shooting. Other than his wife, Sarah was ignorant of any potential suspects. After all, Greg kept most of his personal business private, clamming up when Sarah started asking questions. Come to think of it, she couldn’t blame him.
