My fingers slipped on the latch. The box was still hot, and smoke and burnt plastic clung to it. Guests whispered around us. Mia held my arm and arranged her face into concern.
"Liam, darling, what is it?" she murmured. "Is it from her?"
I shook her off. The box had to contain another trick, perhaps legal papers or a demand for money. Chloe wanted to ruin Mia’s celebration. That was all.
I forced the warped latch open.
Only two sheets lay on the scorched velvet lining.
The first was a divorce agreement. Her signature ran across the bottom in one clean stroke. She had signed it before the fire.
My chest tightened. After everything, she had chosen to leave me first.
The second sheet carried the St. Jude’s oncology letterhead. I skimmed the medical terms until I reached the diagnosis.
