The Chair by the Window — The Night Nobody Helped Me
I knew that worry.
In the Whitcomb house, even describing a problem accurately could be called disloyalty.
Eliza told me about the guest who had offered her money to stay quiet, not in an envelope or dramatic exchange, but by suggesting that a generous severance package might be possible if she remembered the night as a misunderstanding.
She had declined and preserved the text message.
“Did Wyatt send it?” I asked.