But problems like him don’t go away on their own.
They escalate.
I glance toward the guest room where Blake is editing, headphones on, absorbed in the footage of my redemption.
I smile.
I always clean up my messes.
Chapter Seventeen
Shae
Idon’t open the letter right away.
I set it on the kitchen counter—next to my phone, next to the framed photo of Sophie and me as kids. In it, I look happy. Carefree. Loved.
Then I look back at the envelope.
Ordinary. Cream paper. No return address. My name printed, not handwritten. Careful. Controlled.
I sit at the table and slit it open with my finger. No ceremony. No buildup.
The letter is longer than I expected.
That’s the first thing that bothers me.
It starts warm.
Shae,
I hope this reaches you at a moment of peace.
I snort.
Peace isn’t something people like me stumble into by accident.
I keep reading.
I’ve followed your story for years. Longer than you know. I’ve watched the way the world tried to destroy you, and the way you refused to let it. That takes strength. It takes intelligence. It takes blood.
I stop.
Blood.
I scan ahead, just to see where this is going. The writing doesn’t change—no slant, no tremor. Whoever wrote this wasn’t emotional. They were composed.
That’s the second thing that bothers me.
I go back.
I’m your sister.
Your half-sister, technically.
I read the line twice.
Then a third time.
