Viola McCoy
I don’t remember starting the car.
I don’t remember pulling out of the parking lot or driving through three red lights or ignoring the texts that keep flashing across my screen like warning signs.
LOGAN (2 Missed Calls)
LOGAN (5 New Messages)
All I know is I’m driving. I’m breathing too hard. I’m trying not to scream.
My chest feels like it’s collapsing inward. My hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white, nails biting into the leather. I can’t cry—not yet. If I start, I might not stop.
Camille’s voice still echoes.
He didn’t want you to find out like this…
Missy. His daughter.
Three years old.
He looked me in the eye and held me every night with this hanging between us.
He let me fall deeper into him, while digging a hole between us.
And the worst part?
I didn’t even see it. I sensed something, sure. The way he pulled away. The way his eyes stayed on the floor too long. But I trusted him. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I gave him everything.
And he gave
