The old man stood in front of his shop, clad in black mourning clothes.
Tailor Caruso had lived a long life, but even at his age, grief clung to him. The reporters swarmed around him like vultures, eager to sink their teeth into his pain, to twist his sorrow into a headline.
"We have reports suggesting that Ms. Joanne Smith manipulated her ex-boyfriend into killing your nephew. What do you think about that, Mr. Caruso?" one reporter pressed.
The old tailor turned on his heel and walked back toward his shop. The reporters took it as a sign that he would answer them, stepping closer in anticipation.
After all, they wanted a story—something sensational, something they could stretch and twist until it bled money.
Joanne lowered her head, closing her eyes.
The warmth of Jeffrey's hand in hers was a steady anchor. A comfort.
And yet, despite the weight of the accusations, a small, wry thought crossed her mind.
Have I really grown this much?
