Chapter 2

Grace's POV

My aunt Hannah Graham's cautious voice came through the phone, brimming with delight. "Have you thought it through, Grace? Before your mother passed away, the person she worried about most was you.

"That whole tragedy left you with such a deep trauma… I've always been afraid you'd get stuck in it. Now that you've finally come around, I'm just so…"

She paused for a moment before regaining her composure. "I'll book your ticket. How does tomorrow afternoon sound?"

I blinked my dry, aching eyes. "That sounds fine. I'll go back and pack my things. I'll see you at the airport tomorrow afternoon."

After hanging up, I found a nearby hotel and checked in. The bed was clean and untouched. No one had slept in it, and it was free of anyone else's scent.

For the first time in a long while, I slept remarkably well.

…

I slept until the following afternoon before returning home. When I pushed the door open, I realized no one was home.

I headed straight for the master bedroom to pack my belongings. The moment I pushed the door open, I froze in my tracks. Even though I had prepared myself for the worst, the scene before my eyes still drove a knife straight through my heart.

The bedsheets were crumpled into a heap at the foot of the bed, and the pillows were crooked and shoved to one side. A pink lace bra with ruffled edges was draped over the edge of the mattress. It was the one Pamela wore all the time.

On top of the sheets lay a pair of pink panties, streaked with stains. Every detail made it painfully obvious just how intense things had gotten between the two of them after I left.

I dragged myself forward, and my eyes immediately locked onto the bra strap, where the words "50 min" were written in black marker.

At that moment, my heart completely died because that bra belonged to Pamela. Those glaring numbers instantly transported me back to three years ago—to the day Pamela moved in. That night, she and I lay on the bed, chatting about our love life.

Pamela told me she had recently started seeing someone, but because of his unique line of work, they couldn't make their relationship public, and they rarely got to see each other.

I had noticed, however, that there were often numbers written on the straps of her bras. Sometimes it was 35, other times 48, and the highest I'd ever seen was 72. Unable to contain my curiosity, I pressed her to tell me what they meant.

Lying beside me, she giggled and said, "It's how long my boyfriend lasts in bed every single time we do it. It's our little secret code."

Back then, I laughed and teased her, genuinely happy that she had found a good man. But now, I realized that the man she had been talking about was Lyle all along.

What was going through her mind when she was bragging to me back then? Was she treating me like a joke, playing me for a fool, or just taking pity on me?

As if possessed, I turned around and walked into Pamela's room next door. I opened her closet and immediately saw rows of lingerie hanging neatly along the wall.

The straps were densely covered with written numbers. Several had hearts drawn around them, while others had been traced over twice in red ink, like a calendar meant for only one person's eyes.

At that moment, I wanted to cry, but I couldn't shed a single tear. My eyes felt so swollen and sore that they seemed ready to burst.

My phone rang, and I answered with red-rimmed eyes.

An urgent voice came from the other end. "Am I speaking with a family member of Pamela Sinclair? She's in critical condition right now and needs immediate surgery. You're listed as her emergency contact. Please come down as soon as possible to sign the consent form!"