“No, it isn’t.”
Grace was asleep against her shoulder, clutching Mr. Buttons.
Emily lowered her voice.
“Is this about Dad?”
“Partly.”
“Are we still going?”
I looked through the terminal windows at the aircraft waiting beneath the bright runway lights.
“Yes.”
That answer surprised me with its certainty.
Whatever Vanessa knew, I refused to let another Whitmore emergency dictate where my daughters slept tonight.
I texted her.
What is in the envelope?
Her reply came almost immediately.
I never opened it.
Then:
But Charles tried to get it back.
My stomach tightened.
Where is it now?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Safe.
I typed:
Why send me the photo now?
Her answer came several minutes later.
Because Daniel is going to believe this whole disaster began with me. It didn’t.
Then she sent one final message.
Ask Patricia where your original divorce petition went.
I stared at the sentence.
