Chapter 1: The Wooden Doors
The midday sun beat down hard against the white oak doors of Saint Jude’s. White floral arrangements—hydrangeas and roses—swayed gently in the autumn breeze, smelling faintly of sweet perfume and damp earth. Outwardly, everything looked like the picture of a modest, elegant small-town wedding. Inside my tuxedo jacket, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stood waiting for the cue to turn, my fingers adjusting my black tie while guests murmured softly in the pews behind us.
Then came the patter of small patent-leather shoes against the stone steps.
I turned, expecting the flower girl, but it was Lily. At six years old, she usually moved with a bouncy, careless energy, but today she walked slowly. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly with a white headband, but her face was blotched and tear-stained. Her big blue eyes, usually so bright, looked up at me with a heavy, broken sorrow that didn't belong on a child. She wore her white flower-girl dress, the hem slightly scuffed from the gravel path.
"Daddy," she whispered, her voice trembling so hard the syllable cracked right down the middle. She held out a small, violently crumpled white paper note.
The weight of the silence around us shifted. I dropped to one knee, the polished fabric of my black trousers brushing the dusty stone. I didn't care about the cameras clicking or the rising murmurs from the pews. I looked into her small, terrified face, taking in every detail of her distress. I could hear the distant rustle of silk as Rebecca waited inside the vestibule, unaware that our meticulously planned public life was about to fracture.
"What is it, honey?" I asked, keeping my voice low and steady, fighting the sudden knot forming in my throat. I reached out and gently brushed a stray blonde curl away from her damp forehead.
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"Rebecca gave me this," Lily choked out, wiping a stray tear with the back of her tiny hand. Her small shoulders shook with suppressed emotion, and the sight of her pain sent a spike of white-hot protectiveness through my chest.
I took the crumpled paper from her fingers. It was heavy cardstock, torn roughly at the edges, bearing handwriting I recognized instantly—slanted, sharp, and entirely devoid of warmth. Inside my chest, the air went completely cold.
