knuckles white. Inside it were the few historical documents I' d managed to salvage. The rest... the rest was landfill. Buried

an in a hospital bed. The headline was sickeningly cheerful: Socialite Chloe Miller'

on. Our seven-month-old, unborn son. Chloe had them induce labor early. She signed the paper

, her face a cold, beautif

om the phone, my

pression worried. "Caleb, are you sure abou

a cough. "I have to try, Sarah. Some of those text

ierce. "She killed your baby. She destroyed y

l society, our marriage... it was all a tool. A way for her to get back at her family, to b

to health. She told me she was faking her death to escape them. I helped her. I fell in love with a woman who didn' t exist. When she returned to the cit

ced to marry someone else and got so sick," she' d told me, standing over our ba

physical blow. I

oe, my doctor says I need a peaceful, historically significant environm

ldozers. She didn' t even call me. I foun

didn' t know the truth about my family. We weren' t just archivists. We did

ll over us.

, flanked by two large men in black suits.

irm. "Ms. Miller has requested you return to

to catch," I sa

Davis motioned to the men, who stepped

f my way,"

xpensive. Ms. Miller covers the costs. It would be a shame if those funds were s

, cold and sharp. My mothe

me, replaced by a cold, h