ceiling.
My body was exhausted.
My mind refused to stop.
At 11:47 p.m., my phone buzzed.
Ethan.
I ignored it.
A minute later, another message appeared.
I know you don’t trust me. You have every reason not to. But please don’t involve Prescott.
I stared at the words.
That was new.
Ethan rarely admitted fault.
Never directly.
I typed:
Why were you calling the airport?
My thumb hovered.
Then I deleted it.
Another message came.
This is bigger than our divorce.
I sat up.
A moment later:
Check your email. Search “Northbridge.”
I frowned.
Northbridge?
I had never heard the word.
I opened my email account.
There were 18,000 messages because apparently deleting promotional emails had been another responsibility I abandoned during motherhood.
I typed NORTHBRIDGE into the search bar.
Three results appeared.
All old.
The first dated eighteen months earlier.
The sender was Ethan.
Subject line:
