“No. He lied because of him.”
His little arms went around my neck.
“I don’t want you to die.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m right here.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
That night, in a hotel room we could barely afford, Noah slept beside me with his shoes still near the bed and his drawing folded under his pillow.
I sat in the chair by the window and watched the city lights blur.
My phone was a storm.
Jenna.
Unknown numbers.
Reporters.
Daniel.
Daniel.
Daniel.
I answered none of them.
At 1:12 a.m., one message came from Caroline Ashford.
I expected rage.
Instead, it said:
I didn’t know. I am so sorry. Please keep every document safe. My father’s legal team may contact you, but only with your permission. Also, the veil was beautiful. I’m devastated that he stole it from you.
I read the message three times.
