The three days leading up to Friday felt like a slow motion execution. The Winter Wing, which had once seemed like a dusty prison, now felt like a fragile glass box, every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the house shifting in the wind, sounded like Arthur's footsteps.
Grey was a ghost, he was physically there, sitting across from me at the scarred mahogany table or pacing the length of the library, but his mind was miles away, navigating the labyrinth of the Williams' family politics, we barely spoke, when we did, it was about the "script."
"If they ask about our first date," Grey said, his voice raspy from lack of sleep, "we say it was at the gallery opening in Chelsea, it was raining, I gave you my coat."
