I sat there very still while the message ended.
He let her into my house.
Into my closet.
Into the room where I’d cried after Dad’s first surgery and the room where Grant had once stood behind me fastening that same dress while kissing the back of my neck.
Something inside me hardened so cleanly it almost felt like relief.
Upstairs, I heard a drawer slam. Then another. Grant, packing or pretending to.
I looked at the cottage deed again.
I could stay here and spend the night listening to him move around my house like a man who still had rights. Or I could leave him with silence, lawyers, and the exact weight of what he’d done.
I went to our bedroom, pulled a suitcase from the closet, and started packing.
Halfway through, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
We need to talk. He lied to both of us. — Rebecca
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
Then another text came in.
I have proof. And you need to know what he was saying about your father.
My suitcase lay open on the bed, black silk and toiletries and grief spilling into it.
I picked up the phone.