“What letters?”
“From Sophie.”
I stared at him.
“She never wrote you.”
“I know that now.”
The hallway suddenly felt colder.
“What did they say?”
“That she hated me. That she knew what kind of man I was. That she wanted no contact.”
I felt sick.
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“Who sent them?”
He looked at me.
“I thought you knew.”
“I didn't.”
His gaze changed.
Before either of us could speak, the doctor appeared.
Sophie had suffered a concussion, a split lip, bruising across both arms and ribs, and significant swelling around one eye.
No broken bones.
No internal bleeding.
“She was lucky,” the physician said.
I hated that word.
Lucky.
My daughter had been assaulted on her wedding night and we were calling her lucky because nobody had fractured her skull.
When we entered the treatment room, Sophie was lying beneath a blanket.
Her face looked small.
Young.
Alex sat beside her.
