42_The breaking point

Eloise

The knock on the door wasn’t frantic, wasn’t loud. Just firm.

I froze where I stood in the kitchen, Max’s half-eaten toast still on the plate in front of me. The morning sun streamed through the windows, but it felt cold.

I knew. Before I even opened the door, I knew.

“Ms. Eloise Sinclair?” The man in the grey suit, eyes avoiding mine, held out an envelope.

“For you.”

My fingers felt like ice as I took it.

“Served,” he muttered, turning on his ...