Christopher
The sight of Edward playing in the corner of the room barely registers as I sit back in the leather chair, staring at the untouched glass of whisky in my hand.
My chest feels heavy, like there’s a weight pressing against my ribs. The crackling fire in the hearth does nothing to ease the cold knot in my stomach. Elizabeth. She almost died.
The thought keeps replaying in my head like a haunting melody, over and over.
I picture her surrounded by flames, choking on smoke, her face twisted in terror.
My Elizabeth—the mother of my child.
How scared must she have been?
How close was she to losing her life? My throat tightens at the idea, and I grip the armrest of the chair until my knuckles turn white.
Guilt washes over me like a tidal wave, relentless and consuming. I glance
