spent years believing that helping Benjamin was love.
Maybe I had actually been helping him stay trapped.
I looked at the brown envelope still in my hand.
There was one more page inside.
I hadn’t noticed it.
I pulled it out.
It wasn’t written by Thomas.
It was a photocopy of a bank statement.
The account holder’s name was visible at the top.
I read it once.
Then again.
My heart began pounding.
Because the account wasn’t Benjamin’s.
It wasn’t Genevieve’s.
It wasn’t her father’s.
It belonged to someone else.
