Not the police.
Not Michael.
Not being asked to leave.
The card.
The coverage.
The thing she had accepted from my work while telling me my work was pretend.
“You can’t do that,” she whispered.
“I can,” I said.
“I have a gallbladder procedure next month.”
“Then ask your son,” I said. “Or ask your favorite heir.”
She pressed one hand to her chest.
“Emily, please. I’m sick.”
I looked at Olivia.
My daughter’s lashes were wet.
Her cheek was still red.
The towel under her nose was turning pink.
“My daughter is hurt,” I said. “And she was attacked by the woman I opened my front door to.”
Then I picked Olivia up and carried her to my bedroom.
I locked the door.
Sarah stood in the hallway and cried like the house had betrayed her.
She begged me to wait for Michael.
She said I was destroying the family.
