Every step sent a dull blade of pain through my abdomen, the wound pulling open a little more with each one.
But I couldn't afford to care.
I made my way to the second-floor study.
Everything was exactly as I'd left it.
I moved the bookshelf panel aside with practiced hands, revealing the hidden compartment and the safe behind it.
The combination was our wedding anniversary.
How fitting.
At the very bottom of the safe, a brown paper envelope lay waiting.
My hands were shaking as I pulled out what was inside.
A medical report from five years ago.
Three lines, printed black on white, that could ruin him:
*Giles Gilbert — congenital infertility — no known cure.*
My trump card was finally back in my hands.
Five years collapsed in on me at once.