Left To Burn: My Husband's Betrayal

Jacks

void in my gut. I' d been calling Celeste for hours. No answer. Just the

jumble. Where are you? We need to talk about Isabelle. About the balcony.

ying. She walked over, wrapping her arms around me. "Holden, darling, why are you

eleste. "Isabelle, tell me the truth. What h

something else beneath the surface. "Of course, she did! She's always b

had seemed... empty. But Isabelle was crying, clinging to me. And C

I said, but the w

A text. Not from Celeste. Fr

ized. Please come to collec

Isabelle bent down, picking it up, her eyes widening as she read the mes

his?" she whispere

ed Celeste's number, again and again. Still off. My hea

ce hoarse. "Mrs. Davies, whe

. she left this morning. She told me she was no longer

nd reeled. No. No, she wouldn't. This was a game. A

e'll be back." I slammed the phone down, gra

deep in the red. My mind was a whirlwind of images: Celeste's empty eyes, th

name. "Celeste! Celeste!" The house

bare. Her clothes were gone. Her books, her trinkets, even the small, pers

t, the signed divorce agreement. My signature, bold and arrogant,

icked it up. Her handwri

'm not coming back.

ragged gasp. No. This was

I called Maya, her best friend.

fice, Mr. Jackson," the receptionist said, her voic

re?" I demande

hat information, sir. Ms. Spar

e seeping into my bones. She was gone. My wife, the woman who had loved me for