“Your husband told me you’d take care of me.”
“Mrs. Camille?”
Atlas and I had been married for twelve years. For ten of them, we had lived with quiet grief after his car accident left him unable to have children.
We had cried, packed away the yellow nursery curtains, and learned how to build a life around an empty room.
Or so I thought.
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “Who are you?”
“My name is Matilda.”
“Matilda,” I repeated. “How did you know my husband?”
“My name is Matilda.”
Her fingers tightened around the backpack straps. “He said you might be angry first.”
My throat went dry. “Why would I be angry?”
“Because he was scared this would hurt you.”
Before I could answer, she unzipped her backpack and pulled out an old videotape sealed in plastic. A white label crossed the front.
Read more on the next page…
