The morning after we buried my father, my ex-husband’s new wife walked straight into his garden and told me to begin packing my belongings.

caught my eye.

A small envelope.

My heart stopped.

The paper was damp from morning dew, but I recognized the handwriting instantly.

HANNAH.

My father’s handwriting.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. The garden seemed to go silent around me. Even the cicadas in the live oaks faded into the distance.

My hands trembled as I picked it up.

Suddenly every threat Brooke continue reading …