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She gives me another meek smile. “Thanks for listening. I wouldn’t have been comfortable going to Niki or Nessa. I mean, I love them but—”
“I get it; don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t say a thing until you’re ready to share it with the rest of the family.”
“Thanks, Paige.”
“Anytime. I just want you to be happy, Cyrille. We all do.”
“I know, and I—” She stops short when someone comes around the corner. Her shoulders tense, but it’s only Noel.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he says, “but this envelope just came for you.”
Frowning, I check the return address.
Corden Park.
My jaw falls open. “Oh my God.”
“Everything okay?” Cyrille asks, brows furrowed with concern.
“I… Yes. Sorry. It’s just—It’s a letter from my parents.” I weigh the envelope in the flat of my hand. “It feels like there’s more than just a letter in here, actually.”
“Why do you seem so shocked?”
“If you knew my parents, you would be, too. They’re not the letter-writing type. Not the texting or calling type, either, actually. In fact, they’re the type to forget I exist unless they want something from me.”
My stomach twists with nerves as I tear the seal open, bracing for whatever they’ve written. But it’s not a letter inside.
It’s a set of pictures.
Pictures of the trailer I grew up in—the trailer my parents still live in.
Except it’s been burnt to the ground. All that remains is the smoldering carcass.
I throw the pictures down like I might be able to distance myself from the sight. Like throwing them might make it no longer true.
Cyrille grabs my arm. “Honey, Paige, what’s going on?”
“My parents,” I gasp, fighting to suck in every new breath. “I… I think they’re dead.”
66
MISHA
When I return at last to the mansion, Paige is in the garden, sobbing into Cyrille’s lap.
Cyrille sees me as I approach and points wordlessly to the envelope in the chair next to hers. As soon as I see the familiar white envelope, I stiffen.
With frozen fingers, I slide the photographs of the charred trailer out of the envelope and flip through them.
Fucking hell.
I toss the photos back into the chair and drop to one knee in front of my distraught wife. “Paige, baby, it’s me.”
She rocks back and forth, tears and mascara smeared across her cheeks, eyes open but totally unseeing. “They’re dead, Misha. They’re dead. And it’s my fault.”
“We don’t know anything yet.”
“Look at the trailer,” she hisses through her sobs. “Look at it!”
