Viola McCoy
I hear it before I see her.
A soft knock. Three gentle taps. Then silence.
I’m standing in my tiny kitchen, stirring honey into lukewarm tea, trying not to think about Logan or the fact that he’s now living right next door with the child that tore my heart in two.
I’ve managed to avoid them for three whole days. Every time I hear little feet running on the gravel outside or a high-pitched giggle bouncing across the backyard fence, I shut my windows.
But the knock returns. Lighter this time. Then a voice.
“Pretty lady? Are you in there?”
My breath catches in my throat.
Missy.
I close my eyes and steady my hands against the counter. Maybe if I’m quiet, she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll think I’m not home. But she knocks again—persistent, patient.
“Pretty lady… I made you a picture.”
My resolve crumbles.
I open the door just a crack, and there she is.
Big brown eyes. Curly hair tucked under a pink knitted hat. A paper clutched tightly in her tiny hands—creased and slightly smudged,
