My head started spinning.
The photo was worse.
“This could be somebody messing with us,” I said out loud.
The photo could’ve been staged. In the ER, I’d seen enough theatrics to know a setup when one was laid out that neatly on a bed. I forced myself to breathe. Whoever left this wanted a reaction, and the smart move was to slow down.
Then my mind slid, against my will, to the folder on the kitchen table last month. The one my daughter had hidden the second I walked in. The hushed phone calls. The extra shifts at the coffee shop, she said, were just for “spending money.”
Whoever left this wanted a reaction.
Every strange little thing from the past year clicked into place, and every click hurt.
“How could Lily do this to me?!”
I gripped the edge of the dresser to keep myself upright.
