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 fled. Knew enough to call her a traitor. And still chose to defend the man who had done this.
Mark pounded 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, shaking, but something else had surfaced in her expression now—shame, maybe, or the release of finally saying it.
“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.”
A wave of nausea hit me.
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