A new email pings in my inbox. It’s from someone I don’t know, but the subject catches my attention: re Confessions of an Abused Wife.
My heart slams to a stop and stutters and stumbles. The email is probably a rejection. Or a request for an exclusive interview and not for the article I wrote.
I put Troy’s messages back in the floral box.
The curser hovers over the email for a second. I click it open.
To: Jessica Smithson
From: Ruby Davis
Subject: re Confessions of an Abused Wife
Dear Jessica,
Thank you for your submission. I enjoyed your article “Confessions of an Abused Wife” and would like to publish it in an upcoming issue ofEmbrace Life. The article was emotionally insightful, and I would love to read more of your work.
The rest of the email goes on to cover what the publication will pay me for the article. It’s not a large amount, but it is a start. Every published article under my name adds to my credibility, especially if they’re published in a major magazine likeEmbrace Life. Every article published is one more opportunity for my voice to be heard, one more chance for me to make a difference.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I close my laptop and fetch the vacuum from the laundry room. Bailey whimpers, not being a fan of the noise the vacuum makes. I open the back door to let her out into the garden.
I carry the vacuum upstairs and go into the second bedroom. I grab the headphones I recently ordered, which are nowhere near as good as the ones Troy lent me. I pull upThe Greatest Showmansoundtrack and hit Play.
I vacuum the bedrooms and head downstairs. The opening bars to “This is Me” plays, and I sing along to the lyrics. I direct them to all the people who’ve tried to cut me apart since they found out the ugly truth about my past.
I am bruised.
I am scarred.
But I’m also braver—like Robyn pointed out yesterday. I still have a long way to go. Healing from trauma like I’ve endured isn’t a quick fix. PTSD doesn’t go away overnight or after a few months of therapy—or even with the addition of a weighted blanket when I sleep. But maybe one day I’ll be able to walk down the street without having to keep looking over my shoulder. Maybe one day my past won’t haveanycontrol over me.
I park the vacuum by the coffee table in the living room, put the headphones on the table, and walk toward the back door to check on Bailey.
A man is standing in front of the door, blocking the exit, thick arms folded across his wide chest.
Chills lunge through my body, robbing me of the air in my lungs.Oh, fuckers.“Lincoln?”
The last time I saw Wayne’s brother was at my trial. The hatred he felt for me then hasn’t diminished with time. His scowl is no softer than it was the day the jury found me guilty of all charges. He hadn’t even seemed happy or relieved at the verdict. Just pissed he wasn’t allowed to come near me. To kill me with his own hands.
Lincoln remains motionless, his deep-blue eyes locked on mine. And his gaze, filled with burning hatred, turns my body to iced-over stone.Move. Scream. Run!It doesn’t matter how many times I say the words to myself, my fight-or-flight instinct continues to fail me.
“What are you doing here?”And why didn’t Bailey put up a fuss about you coming into the house?
“Bailey?” I call out, my feet moving forward.Has she eaten more poison?
“Where is it, Savannah?” The edge to Lincoln’s tone is more lethal than a rattlesnake’s bite.
“Where’s what?” I really have no clue what he’s talking about. The restitution payment because I was wrongly imprisoned? Is that what he’s after? He wants my money? Hell if that’s happening.
“The information Wayne had. The insurance policy. He hid it. It wasn’t in his house. Which means you took it. You know where it is.”
Hid it? Why would he think Wayne hid his insurance policy? He kept them in a safe box in the laundry room. Lincoln should know that, given Wayne bequeathed our house to him. Even from his grave, my dead husband had a hand in manipulating my well-being.
He’d left very little to me and Amelia. Lincoln then went to court and made sure I received none of the money—because I’d supposedly killed my husband. The judge had sided with him…and Craig never contested the ruling on Amelia’s behalf. He didn’t want her to have anything that once belonged to her biological father.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lincoln. Which insurance policy?” I frown and take a step back.
