Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
In fact, what I felt was anger. Anger that she couldn’t bring herself to blame me outright, to give in to the rage she felt, to heal.
And anger at that damned psychiatrist, Dr. Morgan, who said she could help us. Said she could help Lindsay.
Oh, God…
If Lindsay didn’t take her own life…perhaps Dr. Morgan could have eventually helped her?
What am I doing? What do I hope to find? To prove?
Whatever the real story is, Lindsay is still dead. Our daughter is still dead.
I grip the edge of my desk, my knuckles white.
I was finally beginning to move on.
With the surgery.
With Angie.
But everything has changed.
I won’t let this lie.
I can’t.
Chapter Three
Angie
I don’t see Jason for the rest of the day.
Fear gnaws at me. What did those people want with him? I want to call him or at least text him.
But I don’t.
This morning, I was ready to pack up my life and head to Switzerland with him.
Now?
I still want to.
I want to be with him more than anything.
But I know so little about him.
He’s been through such a devastating tragedy.
Back home after my classes are done for the day, I cuddle with Tillie on the couch and fire up my laptop.
Sure, I should be studying, but instead, I look for more information on Jason.
A few other sites have the obituaries for Lindsay and Julia, and there’s a memorial page on Facebook. Some of the posts are public, so I read through them.
Several are from Jason’s colleagues, sending condolences and offering support. But it’s the posts from Lindsay’s friends that catch my attention. One of them, a woman named Becca, wrote,
Still can’t believe you’re gone, Lin. Your laugh was infectious, your spirit was insurmountable. You’d always find a way to turn things right side up when they were upside down. I missed you so much after you left. I never thought, in a million years, that you’d be gone. Wherever you are, I hope you’re at peace.
I scroll through more posts, and one theme is clear throughout all of them—sadness and shock that a woman so full of vitality and joy was now gone. Several talk about how they lost touch after high school, never knew what happened to her. Posts from college friends and teaching colleagues mention her intelligence and dedication to her students.
I scroll through, skimming, until a post catches my eye.
You’ll always be my only love. - R
With a heart emoji.
R?
Lindsay was married to Jason. Not someone whose initial is R.
The profile has no photo, and the name is simply R. Lyon.
An odd coldness seeps into my veins as I click on the profile. It’s basically empty—no friends, no posts, nothing but that single tribute to Lindsay Lansing. But unlike the others on the memorial page, this one was posted two years after her death.
I sit back. Tillie scrambles into my lap, knocking my computer onto the ground. I give her a pet as I try to make sense of what I found. Could it be a fake profile? Someone playing a sick joke?
But why? Who would benefit from such a thing?
Could just be an internet troll. A bot trying to harvest clicks.
But something is creeping up the back of my neck, telling me there’s more to this.
I grab my laptop from the floor and click on the message icon. Maybe this R. Lyon has some answers.
Who are you? I type in and then impulsively hit Send.
The response is immediate, which is odd because since R and I aren’t friends, it wouldn’t go right through. Instead, it would go into the Message Requests folder.
Which means R is not only online, but he’s monitoring Messenger.
Who wants to know? the message reads.
Damn.
This was a mistake.
My profile is Angela Simpson, making it pretty clear that I’m the one who wants to know.
Major fuck-up.
What was I thinking, messaging a stranger on Facebook?
I quickly shut my laptop and lean back on the couch. Tillie snuggles up to me. “Yeah, girl, I messed up,” I murmur as I run my fingers through her soft fur.
I pick up my phone to call Jason but then hesitate. I want to tell him about R. Lyon’s mysterious message, but he doesn’t know I’m aware of his past.
Do I tell him I know? He’d know that I looked into him. But in this day and age, that’s expected. You research the people you’re dating, figure out if they have any skeletons in their closet.
Still, though… He’s been through so much. He doesn’t need me poking my head in where it doesn’t belong. What he needs is to get to Switzerland and have the surgery that could give him back his dream, his livelihood, his chosen career.
Besides, Jason probably already knows about R. Lyon. I mean, surely he reads the memorial posts on Lindsay’s page.
Except that Lindsay died three years ago, and the post from R is from a year ago.