The Aftermath
The paper slipped from my fingers, fluttering down into the box.
The anger that had fueled my life for a decade evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow shock. I looked at the medical receipts in the box—every single one paid for by a shell company registered in Mark’s name.
“Lauren? You find something?” Dad’s voice called out from the kitchen.
I looked at the image of the man pointing accusingly from the warning sign on Clara’s desk—a reminder to be careful with your heart. I realized then that my anger hadn’t protected me; it had just kept me blind.
“No, Dad,” I choked out, wiping a hot tear from my cheek as I clutched the journal to my chest. “Just… some old memories. I think I’m going to stay for the funeral after all.”
