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

before they heal, leaving only razor-sharp edges. I can offer you no other explanation or excuse for the way she’s cut you over the years.

You, my sweet girl, were the light of my very long life.

You were my reason to slow down, to live with more intention, less fear.

You, Georgia, who remind me so very much of my sister.

You have her indomitable will, her strong heart, her fierce spirit, and her eyes—my eyes.

I pray that this package finds you happy and madly in love with the man you’ve deemed worthy of your heart. I also hope you’ve realized by now that man isn’t Damian—not unless he’s had an epiphany between what is now your sixth year of marriage, and when you open this on your seventh anniversary. And yes, I get to say that because I’m dead. When I was alive, you were determined, and heaven help the soul who tries to change your stubborn little mind. Some lessons we simply have to learn for ourselves.

So why tell you, now that I’m gone? Why lay this truth at your feet when I trusted no one else? Because you, more than any other Stanton, need to know that it is love that brought you here. I’ve never seen another love like Scarlett and Jameson’s. It was one of those fated lightning strikes, miraculous to see up close, to feel the energy between the two when they were in the same room. That is the love that lives in your veins.

I’ve never seen another love like I had for Edward—we were twin flames.

But I’ve also never seen another love like I had for Brian—deep and calm and true.

Or another love like William’s for Hannah—achingly sweet.

But I have seen the same love that I had for William the day I stepped onto that plane. It lives in you. You are the culmination of every lightning strike and twist of fate.

Do not settle for the love that hones your edges and turns you brittle and cold, Georgia. Not when there are so many other kinds of love waiting for you. And don’t wait like I did, wasting seventeen years because I’d left one bitter foot in my past.

We’re all entitled to our mistakes. When you recognize them for what they are, don’t live there. Life is too short to miss the lightning strike and too long to live it alone. This is where my story ends. I’ll be watching over you to see where yours leads.

All my love,

Gran

Tears dripped down my face as I finished the last page, and they weren’t the pretty, silent ones. Oh no, I was a snotty mess.

She’d lived seventy-eight years of her life as Scarlett, never being called by her own name. Never letting someone else help carry the burden of what she’d done. She’d borne the deaths of Edward, Jameson, Scarlett, Brian…then William and Hannah, yet hadn’t hardened under the grief.

I left the letter on the steps, then clutched my phone and stumbled to the office. Snatching the framed picture of Scarlett and Jameson from the desk, I hit my knees in front of the bookshelf cabinets and dug through the contents to find the same albums I’d shown to Noah months ago.

William. William. William. The first picture of Gran had been taken in 1950, long enough after the Ipswich bombing that no one would question any physical differences. She hadn’t just shied away from the camera lens, she’d studiously avoided it.

I studied both pictures, needing to see it for myself.

Scarlett’s chin was slightly sharper, Constance’s lower lip a bit fuller. Same nose. Same eyes. Same beauty mark. But they were not the same woman.

People see what they want to see. How many times had she said that to me over the years? Everyone had simply accepted that Constance was Scarlett because they’d never had reason to question it. Why would they when she had William?

The gardening. The tiny style differences Noah had spotted. The baking…it all made sense.

I flipped through the album until I found her wedding picture to Grandpa Brian. There was real, true love shining in her eyes. Noah’s ending had been truer to life than he could have known…but it wasn’t Scarlett’s ending, it was Constance’s.

Scarlett had died on a ruined street nearly eighty years ago. Jameson couldn’t have been far off. They hadn’t been apart for long. They’d been together all this time.

I sucked in a shaky breath and wiped my tears on my sleeve as I fumbled with my cell phone.

If Gran had lived a lie to give me this life, then I owed it to her to live it.

The message I’d sent to Noah still hadn’t been read, but I called him anyway. Four rings. Voicemail. The guy didn’t even have a personalized message, and I wasn’t about to pour my heart out on a voicemail anyway. Besides, with the reviews out, it was no wonder he wasn’t answering.

I gasped. Reviews were out. Stumbling to my feet, I slid into the chair at my desk, then clicked through my emails until I found Adam’s number.

“Adam Feinhold,” he answered.

“Adam, it’s Georgia,” I blurted. “Stanton, I mean.”

“I figured it wasn’t the state calling,” he drawled dryly. “What can I do for you, Ms. Stanton? It’s a bit…heavy around here today.”

“Yeah, I deserve that,” I admitted, cringing like he could see me. “Look, I tried Noah first—”

“I have no clue where he is. He left me a message that he was off on some research trip and he’d be back in time for any release promo we need.”

I blinked. “Noah’s…gone?”

“Not gone. Researching. Don’t stress, he does it every book but yours, since you know, the research had already been done.”

“Oh.” My heart sank. So much for seizing the lightning bolt.

“You know the guy is pretty much dying over you, right?” Adam said softly. “And I say that as his best friend, not his editor. He’s miserable. Or at least he was miserable. This morning he just sounded pissed, but that was after the