Six months earlier
William lifted the small envelope from his desk and turned it over in his hands. He studied the handwriting on the front. It was familiar; it was the handwriting that had been etched on his heart. Hers.
Hers.Running his fingertip along the edges, he felt the rush he typically got when it came to Addison. He swallowed hard, the uneasy feeling returned. In an instant, he knew that she knew. Or maybe not, he hoped. Maybe it was just the guilt eating at him. Either way, something about her that morning had seemed off— now, he was quite certain— this was it. His cover had been blown. Why else would she send him a handwritten note?
Why else would she send him a handwritten note?It had been a long time since she’d resorted to this method of communication. That’s how he knew.
