Julian was outside at six forty-five. Sophie saw his car from the upstairs window while she was still pulling her hair back, the headlights cutting two pale beams through the pre-dawn dark, and she felt the particular combination of nerves and something warmer that she had stopped pretending wasn't specifically about him. She picked up her bag. She checked it twice. She told herself this was Yorkshire, not a date, and went downstairs. Her mother was already in the kitchen, which was unusual for this hour. "You're going," Margaret said. It wasn't a question. "To find Charlotte. Yes." Her mother looked at her for a long moment, at the bag over Sophie's shoulder and the coat she was buttoning and something in Sophie's face that Margaret, who had spent twenty-six years reading her daughters, apparently could not quite name. "Julian is driving you." "Yes." Another long look. Then: "Be careful." And Sophie understood, from the specific weight with which her mother said it,
Last Updated : 2026-07-08 Read more