Mona knocked on the large oak door and waited. She adjusted her jacket and ran a hand through her hair, hoping she didn’t look too dishevelled. She kicked herself for not having lipstick anywhere on her, but there was only so much she could do.
Mona left a dozen messages on Detective Lincoln’s machine, and the weight of her guilt hit her like a train. She had been so stupid, so self-centred, that she had missed all the obvious signs. This was never about Gabriel. This was always about Kerri. Their traumas had intertwined until Mona’s eyes blurred. Even her dreams had been telling her the answer through Amos. This is not about you—for once. Maybe it never was. Mona had been so obsessed with her own wound, so in love with her nightmares that she didn’t even understand what Kerri had been tr
