I left the hospital carrying my daughter’s ashes when my husband finally called from wherever he was with his mistress and coldly said, “The bill has been taken care of. Stop bothering me.” I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t allow him to hear my voice break.

Three years earlier, my father had given it to me with one instruction: if I ever discovered that becoming Brendan Fairchild’s wife had left me without a way out, I was supposed to call the number stored inside.

My father was dead now.

But the phone number still worked.

“Raymond?” I asked into the phone.

The elderly attorney became completely silent when he recognized my voice.

“Nora.