When I tore through the front door, Richard was sitting on the couch, holding a framed photo of Owen. He looked up, startled by the violent entrance.
“Sarah? Honey, what’s wrong? You look hyperventilated,” he said, rushing forward with that same fake, comforting look he had worn since the accident.
“You monster,” I breathed, pulling Owen’s letter from my pocket and holding it up.
Richard froze. His eyes locked onto the messy “For Mom” written on the envelope. In a split second, the grieving, supportive husband vanished. His face hardened, his jaw tightening as he realized the game was up.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the school, Sarah,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, menacing register as he took a step toward me.
But he forgot one thing. A mother who has already lost her world has absolutely nothing left to fear.
