Lynn's POV

I told myself I wasn't going to cry until she was through security.

I made it to the third bag.

It wasn't even a sad bag. It was her supply case — the one she'd packed and repacked four times over the past week, rearranging brushes and charcoal sticks with the focused intensity she brought to anything that mattered. I picked it up to move it to the door and something about the weight of it, the particular worn leather smell of it, the fact that it had been in ...