Angela's hands were still shaking when she unlocked her apartment door. The letter from Carla felt like it was burning a hole in her purse and she needed to get inside before she collapsed right there in the hallway. She stumbled through the door and dropped her keys on the floor without caring where they landed.
Her kitchen table became her war room. She spread the letter out flat and smoothed the wrinkles she had created when she grabbed it so tightly at the hospital. Under the light, every word seemed to jump off the page and punch her in the chest all over again.
"Jonathan isn't who you think he is," she read aloud to her empty apartment. "He knew about my condition, about what was killing me."
Sleep didn't come that night. Angela sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and staring at the letter until the sun came up. By seven in the morning she was dressed and ready to make phone calls.
"Morrison and Associates, how may I help you?"
