every other woman as competition, every kindness as a threat.
“Please,” Maria said, her back now pressed lightly against the stone railing.
“Let’s go back inside.
We can talk about this.”
Like, “I am done talking,” Victoria said.
And in one sharp, furious motion, fueled by months of jealousy that had finally boiled over completely, she shoved Maria backward. The world tilted.
Maria’s hands grabbed at nothing but cold night air.
Her scream was swallowed by the wind and 30 stories of empty space beneath her. For one horrifying second, gravity took hold completely.
And Maria Santos, 34 years old, gentle, hardworking, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, disappeared over the edge of the Witfield Tower.
Inside, through the glass doors, Daniel Whitfield happened to glance toward the balcony at exactly that moment. He saw Victoria standing alone. He saw the empty space where Maria had just been, and his glass of
