I left the hospital that evening with the folder pressed to my chest like it might stop my heart from breaking. Outside, Miami was still blindingly bright, but every color felt wrong. Somewhere inside that building, Sarah was fighting a disease she’d once tried to face alone, and I was holding proof that neither of us had understood our own history. The baby, the anonymous letter, the photograph of me with someone from our past—none of it formed a straight line. It was a circle, closing in.
On the flight back to Chicago, I didn’t sleep. I kept seeing the six words: Ask Charles what happened that night. I didn’t remember a night worth blackmailing us over—but someone believed I should. For the first time, I realized the most dangerous part of this story wasn’t what Sarah had hidden. It was what someone else had rewritten for both of us—and how far they might go to keep the truth buried.
