Chapter 4
At the sound of Lynne’s voice, Balfour froze.
But before he could turn around to look at her, Cynthia suddenly clutched her chest.-
“Balfour, I feel terrible,” she gasped.
Without warning, Cynthia collapsed right in front of him. Panic washed over Balfour’s face.
“Cynthia Cynthia!”
Lynne hurried to his side, but Balfour scooped Cynthia into his arms, shoved past Lynne, and strode out of the room without so much as a backward glance.
He left behind only a single sentence:
“You handle things from here.”
Lynne was left behind at the police station, stuck untangling the mess Balfour had created, with only the lawyer for company.
By the time everything was settled, night had fallen and the city outside was swallowed by darkness. Lynne, who had barely eaten all day, grew paler and paler as the hours dragged on.
When the lawyer finally finished up the last of the paperwork, he turned around just in time to see Lynne’s eyes roll back as she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
Lynne drifted in and out of consciousness, lying on a hospital bed. She tried to open her eyes, but no matter how hard she fought, her eyelids refused to lift.
In a haze, she seemed to relive the days after Balfour’s “death“-her own hollowed–out self. Overnight, her hair had turned gray. She sat for hours in their old bedroom, refusing food and water as she withered away, day after day, until finally a friend found her passed out at home and rushed her to the hospital.
When the doctor told her she was pregnant, it was as if someone had handed her a reason to keep going. But at six months, a car accident shattered what little hope she had left. She lost the only thing she had left of Balfour–forever.
She would never forget the face of the driver responsible for the crash–the face that looked exactly like Cynthia’s.
When Lynne finally woke up, the only person by her side was Lawyer Russell.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Tobin. I tried calling Mr. Tobin, but he’s not picking up. I bought you some soup–please, have a little while it’s still warm.”
Struggling to sit upright, Lynne recalled the way Balfour had carried Cynthia out in his arms. She let out a bitter, mocking laugh.
“Thank you, Mr. Russell. You can go home now.“>
After Russell left, Lynne yanked out her IV and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, intent on leaving. The nurse who came in to change her dressing rushed forward to block her path.
“Why did you take out your IV yourself? Where’s your family?“!
Lyrine lowered her eyes. “I don’t have any family.”
The nurse fell silent, her words catching in her throat. With a soft sigh, she inserted a new IV.
The door swung open again. Another nurse entered, clipboard in hand, muttering as she filled out the chart.
“Honestly, people are just so different. Take Mrs. Tobin down the hall, for example–just a little scare and Mr. Tobin calls in a team of specialists for her. Drags half the hospital out of bed in the middle of the night, all for his wife. Some women have all the luck!”
Lynne wanted to laugh, but her eyes filled with tears.}
Balfour only calmed down after he’d cycled through half a dozen specialists, each confirming Cynthia was fine.
As his panic subsided, another thought crept in–Lynne.
He frowned and dialed her number. He called again and again, more than a dozen times, but no one answered.
Glancing over at Cynthia resting in the hospital bed, he quietly slipped on his coat and left the room.
Meanwhile, Lynne contacted a real estate agent to handle the sale of her studio.
“Miss Simpson, are you sure about this?” The agent stared in disbelief as Lynne tossed one keepsake after another into the firepit. “Some of these things look valuable–why burn them?”
Expressionless, Lynne picked up the plainest, most unremarkable diary and tossed it into the flames without a second thought.
The fire leapt up, scorching her hand. The agent hurried forward and pulled her back.
“What on earth are you doing?“%
