The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

“You were caught in the bombing?” His brow furrowed.

She nodded. “My sister died,” she repeated. “I brought William.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s a pretty nasty gash on your forehead.” He steadied her shoulder with a hand and pressed a handkerchief to her forehead.

“Sir, we don’t have much time. We can’t delay takeoff again,” someone called out.

Vernon muttered a curse. “Do you have everything you need?” he asked her.

“The bags are in the back. One trunk and two cases, just like Jameson said—” Her voice broke. “I packed them myself.”

Vernon’s face fell. “They’ll find him,” he swore. “They have to. Until then, this is what he wanted.” The sadness in his eyes reflected her own.

She nodded. They won’t find him, not alive anyway. The feeling settled deep. Her heart told her Jameson was with Scarlett. William was alone. What would happen to him?

“Get the bags,” Vernon ordered the men standing behind him, then brushed his thumb across William’s cheek, then the blanket she’d wrapped around him. “I’d know my sister’s handiwork anywhere,” he muttered with a small smile as the bags were unloaded and carried toward the runway. He studied her again, his face softening. “Your eyes are just as blue as he described,” he said quietly, shifting his gaze to William. “I see you have them, too.”

“They run in the family,” Constance mumbled. Family. Was she really about to hand over her nephew, Scarlett’s son, to a complete and total stranger just because he was a blood relation?

Protect him. Scarlett’s voice rang through her ears. She could do this—for her.

“The cut on your head looks to be more bluster than wound,” Vernon noted, examining her face as he removed the pressure and the handkerchief. “But I’m pretty sure your nose is broken.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said simply. Nothing mattered.

His brow puckered. “Let’s get to the plane. The docs can check you out before we head to the States. I’m so sorry about your sister,” he said softly, moving his hand to her back and leading her toward the runway. “Jameson told me how close you two were.”

Everything in her recoiled at his use of the past tense, but she kept moving, kept walking, and soon they reached the runway, where the props spun on a converted liberty bomber she knew the ATC used to ferry the pilots back to America.

A few uniformed officers waited outside the door, no doubt completing the manifest.

“Holy shit,” one of the officers muttered, staring at her face.

“What’s wrong, O’Connor?” Vernon snapped. “Never seen a woman caught in an air raid before?”

“Sorry,” the man mumbled, averting his gaze.

“Don’t tell me that baby is going to cry the whole way to Maine,” one of the Yanks joked in an obvious attempt to divert the awkwardness.

“That baby,” Vernon said, motioning toward William, “is William Vernon Stanton, my great-nephew, and he can cry the whole damn time if he likes.”

“Yes, sir.” The man tipped his hat at Constance and climbed aboard.

“You have all your papers?” Vernon glanced at her handbag—no—Scarlett’s handbag.

“Yes,” she whispered as her stomach pitched and gravity shifted. Your eyes are just as blue as he described. Vernon thought she was Scarlett. They all did. She opened her mouth to correct him, but nothing came out.

“Excellent.”

The last remaining officer lifted his clipboard and glanced between Constance and Vernon. “Lieut. Col. Stanton,” he said with a nod, checking the name off his list. “I wasn’t expecting William Stanton to be quite so young, but I’ve got him here.” He checked again. “That leaves us with…”

Protect him.

With my life. She’d promised Scarlett, and that was exactly what she would give—her life for William’s. Only Scarlett could go with him, protect him.

She lifted her chin, adjusted William on her hip, and opened the handbag with trembling fingers to find the visa she’d packed this morning. The damage to her face was, in its own way, now a blessing. She handed the papers to the officer, showing him the scar on her palm that matched the description. Then she pressed a kiss to William’s forehead and silently begged his forgiveness.

“I’m Scarlett Stanton.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Georgia

“Oh my God,” I whispered, the last page fluttering to the floor between my feet. My breath came in a stuttered gasp as a pair of tears splattered on the paper.

Gran wasn’t Scarlett…she was Constance.

There was a roaring in my ears, as though the cogs in my mind were spinning at quadruple time, trying to process it all, to make sense of what she’d written.

All these years, and she’d never said a word. Not one. She’d taken her secret to her grave, carried it alone. Or had Grandpa Brian known?

I picked up the fallen page, filed it at the end of the chapter, then shuffled it back into the envelope. Why didn’t she tell me? Why now, when I couldn’t ask?

The seal broke easily on the third envelope, and I nearly ripped the papers in my haste to read them.

My dearest Georgia,

Do you hate me? I wouldn’t blame you. There were certainly days where I hated myself, where I signed her name and felt every inch the fraud I was. But this letter isn’t for me; it’s for you. So allow me to answer the obvious questions.

As we flew over the North Atlantic, William fell asleep, zipped in and warm with Vernon. That’s when the reality of what I’d done hit hard. There were so many ways it could go wrong, and yet I couldn’t come clean, not with William in the balance. It would only be a matter of time before the truth was revealed and I was forced back to England. All I needed was enough time to meet Jameson’s family—to know for certain that William would be in good hands. I had to play the part.

I took paper and pen from the handbag, then bid farewell to Constance, knowing that posting this letter would only serve to help convince my family that William was out of reach.

Two days after we arrived in the States,