ELEANOR SINCLAIR
The outside air was bracing as I rushed through it, late autumn biting sharply at my exposed arms in the dress I had specially worn to please my now enraged husband, who was waiting.
I tied up my coat and started off, my mind whirling with questions. Once again, I checked the number, and it was his. It had to have been sent to me in error, and it was going to be cleared up the moment she got home. The only thing that frightened me about it was that Damian hardly ever made such mistakes, and he would have checked it if it were her fault. As time went on and he did not call her again, she became more and more convinced that he truly did not send it. It was the one thing that bit at her.
If Damian didn't send the message, who did, and why?
On his phone, as well...
The
