the words appear on my screen.
Call rejected.
He was seeing my name.
He was choosing not to answer.
I typed one message.
LILY IS IN THE ICU. CALL ME NOW.
Nothing.
I sent him a photograph of Lily beneath the hospital blankets.
IVs.
Oxygen.
Monitors.
The little purple bracelet she had made at summer camp still around her wrist.
Still nothing.
David was in the Bahamas on what he called a “reset.”
Two weeks away.
No work calls.
No social media.
No family interruptions.
He had told me he needed space because I made him feel suffocated.
And although he had claimed he was going alone, I would later learn Julianne Mercer had boarded the yacht with him.
His twenty-five-year-old fitness instructor.
The woman whose hand had lingered on his shoulder the first time I met her.
The woman he had laughed about when I questioned him.
“She touches
