Every muscle in my body locked.
Sarah shot upright too fast and cried out, one hand flying to her side. “Don’t let him in,” she gasped. “Please, Em, don’t let him in.”
Another bang hit the door. Then another. Mark wasn’t just knocking anymore. He was trying to make a point.
I killed the living room lamp and crouched beside the couch, peeking through the slit in the curtains. His truck was parked crooked across my driveway, headlights still on, rain washing over the hood. Mark stood on my porch in jeans and a dark sweatshirt, shoulders tense, one hand braced against the door as if he owned whatever was behind it.
My phone vibrated again.
Mom: You always were dramatic. Send her back outside. She made this mess.
For a moment, I couldn’t even process the cruelty. My mother knew Sarah was hurt. Knew she had run. Knew enough to call her a traitor. And still her instinct was to protect the man who had done this.
Mark hit the door again. “Emily, stop acting stupid. This is between me and my wife.”
I backed away from the window and whispered, “Sarah, tell me exactly what happened.”
She was pale and shaking, but now there was something else in her face too—humiliation, maybe, or relief finally cracking it open.
“He found out I talked to a lawyer,” she said. “I used Mom’s tablet a few days ago because mine was dead. I forgot to log out of the email account. Mom saw the messages and told him.”
I felt sick.
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