“Thank you. I’ll call him next. And...” —there was no doubt that Julia’s goodness was affecting me— “have a good holiday.”

“Thank you,” she said with the sound of relief. “You too, Mr. Sherman.”

As I disconnected the call, I realigned my thoughts. If a confrontation with Phillip occurred, it wouldn’t end over my dead body.

It would end over his.

27. Julia

Julia

Turning on my phone, I kicked off my boots, wiggling my sock-covered toes in the soft, warm rug near my bed. Much as Van’s phone had done, my phone vibrated and dinged with numerous incoming text messages and voicemails.

I pulled my sweater over my head and pulled off the blue jeans, leaving me covered in my camisole and soft pants as I picked up my phone, sat upon the edge of the bed, and sighed. Lying back, I hit the first voicemail message from my mother. The time stamp was yesterday afternoon.

“Julia, not returning our messages is childish. How can we be comfortable with your decisions when you’re not replying?”

Listening to her dismissive and demeaning tone had the opposite effect of what her words intended. Closing my eyes, I let her message settle over me. As it did, I saw the errors of my ways, not recently, but in the past.

For the entirety of my life, I’d simply accepted my position in the family as the child. Despite my age signifying adulthood, I’d never exerted my independence. I’d never been encouraged to do so. My place was to accept my role as the Wade heir, as Mrs. Skylar Butler, and with taking over ownership of my stock of Wade—in name only.

It was never planned for me to be involved in the future of Wade Pharmaceutical. My father’s recent confession confirmed as much.

Skipping three voicemails from my mother, I hit the screen to listen to the most recent, last night at near midnight.

“We’re here, Julia. Come out of the house.”

I exhaled as my stomach dropped.

My parents had been here at Van’s home.

Are they still here in northern Wisconsin or have they gone home?

The text messages from both of my parents chronicled their flight to Ashland and their research that allowed them to find Van’s address. There wasn’t anything dubious about what they’d done. Donovan Sherman’s address was public record.

Standing, I laid the phone on the bed, deciding to go downstairs and fill Van in on the identity of our visitors before my shower.

As I reached the door to the hallway, I heard the ring of my phone.