“Okay,” I repeated to myself, my fingers moving across the keyboard. “You’re not marrying that man, Sharon. You’re dodging a trap.”
My phone buzzed with a text just after midnight.
It was from Chelsea, Matt’s daughter—my cousin’s teenage girl who I’d met at Christmas, who’d given me her number because we’d connected over books and bad reality television.
Hi, Aunt Sharon. It’s Chelsea. You saved my number after Christmas. I’m sorry… I heard Oliver and Grandma. I recorded most of it. I didn’t know who else to tell.
She’d attached the recording.
My hands shook as I called her back immediately.
Chelsea answered in a whisper, like she didn’t want anyone to hear.
“Chelsea, sweetheart,” I said gently, my voice steadier than I felt. “You’re not in trouble. I need you to know that. I will never reveal that you sent this to me. Do you understand?”
