My husband looked at me, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Please,” he whispered. “I’m so genuinely sorry. Please, just forgive me.”
My own hands shook badly as I took the papers from my mother. They were printed emails. Old messages.
A police report. The exact date of the accident. The route he’d apparently taken. An address that wasn’t actually his grandparents’ house at all. Tamsin’s own name, printed clearly throughout.