He stood there with only a thin trench coat and a paper bag of clothes. He didn’t look like the giant who had raised me. He looked like a ghost.
“They changed the locks, Sarah,” he whispered, his voice trembling not from the cold, but from the shame. “They told me there was no room left.”
I ushered him in, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, cold rage. For the first week, he did nothing but sleep.
It was as if the exhaustion of holding up the sky for three ungrateful women had finally crushed him. While he slept, I started planning. I am not like my sisters.
Paige is impulsive; Julia is manipulative. I am methodical. I work in forensic accounting.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
