The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (best free e reader .TXT) 📗

don’t know where to leave this,” she admitted softly, showing the envelope to her sister with Jameson’s name clearly inked on the outside.

Constance reached for the envelope, taking it gently from Scarlett’s hands. “I’ll give it to him when he returns,” she promised, then tucked it into the pocket of her dress. With them both out of uniform, Scarlett by force and Constance by choice, since she was on leave, it was easy to believe they’d never put them on. That the war hadn’t yet happened. But it had, and though the dresses were softer than the WAAF uniforms they’d both spent so much time in, both women were harder on the inside.

Scarlett adjusted the hat on William’s head and tugged on the sleeves of his jumper. It was June now, but still chilly for the little one, and would only get colder where they were going. With one long, last wistful look at their bedroom, Scarlett sent up yet another prayer that God would bring Jameson home to her, and then she walked out.

She held herself together as they made their way to the car, keeping her head high as Jameson would want.

Scarlett slid into the passenger seat and held William close as Constance took the wheel. The engine roared to life, and before Scarlett’s heart could overrule her mind, they pulled away from the house, driving toward Martlesham-Heath.

They were barely a few minutes into the drive when the air-raid sirens blared.

Scarlett’s gaze snapped toward the sky, where she could already make out the outline of bombers overhead.

Her stomach dropped.

“Where’s the nearest shelter?” Constance asked, her voice steady.

Scarlett glanced at their surroundings. “Turn right.”

William cried, his face turning a ruddy shade of red as the sirens screeched out their warning.

The pavement filled with civilians, all racing toward the shelter. “Pull over,” Scarlett ordered. “We’ll never make it with the streets crowded like this. We’ll have to go on foot.”

Constance nodded, immediately parking the car along the left side. They exited the car, then raced down the street toward the shelter as the first explosions sounded.

There wasn’t enough time.

Her heart raced as she clutched William to her chest and ran with Constance at her side.

They were a block away.

“Faster!” Scarlett shouted as another earth-shaking boom sounded behind them.

The word had barely left her mouth when the telltale sound of a high-pitched whistle filled her ears, and their world blew apart.

…

The relentless ringing in her ears was only broken by the sound of William’s cry.

Scarlett pried her eyes open, pushing past the pain that screamed through her ribs.

It took a few disoriented seconds to get her bearings, to remember what had happened.

They’d been bombed.

Minutes. Hours? How much time had passed? William!

He cried again, and Scarlett rolled to her side, nearly weeping with relief at the sight of his tearful face wailing beside her.

She brushed the dirt and dust from his cheeks, but his tears only smeared the streaks. “It’s okay, love. Mummy is right here,” she promised, pulling him into her arms as her eyes swept over the destruction around them.

The blast had blown them into a garden bed, which had miraculously sheltered William. Her ribs ached and her ankle protested, but other than those small inconveniences, she was okay. She struggled to sit, holding William against her chest, and startled at the sight of blood slowly oozing from a gash on her shin, but she gave it only a cursory glance as dread filled her chest, replacing the ache in her ribs.

Where was Constance?

The building they’d been running by was nothing but a heap of rubble, and she coughed when her lungs took in more dirt than air.

“Constance!” she screamed, panic overtaking her.

The iron fence of the garden they’d landed in was broken, and through the gap of the bars, Scarlett caught a glimpse of red.

Constance.

She struggled to her feet, her lungs and ribs protesting with vehemence as she staggered toward the scrap of fabric she recognized as Constance’s dress. Her arm caught on something, and she gazed down with confusion. Her handbag was still looped around her arm, and she’d snagged it on one of the iron bars. She yanked it free and stumbled a few more feet before falling to her knees at Constance’s side, careful to keep William from the harsh blocks of stone that lay around his aunt… That lay on his aunt.

No. No. No.

God couldn’t be this cruel, could he? A scream built up in Scarlett’s throat, then ripped free as she used one arm and all her strength to shove the offensive, ugly piece of masonry from her sister’s chest.

The warmth drained from her body, her soul, as she stared at Constance’s dust-and-blood-covered face.

“No!” she screamed. It couldn’t end like this. This couldn’t be Constance’s fate.

William began to cry harder, as if he, too, felt the light grow dimmer in the world.

She gripped her sister’s hand, but there was no response.

Constance was dead.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Georgia

Dear Scarlett,

Marry me. Yes, I mean it. Yes, I’m going to ask you again and again until you’re my wife. It’s only been two days since I left Middle Wallop, and I can barely breathe, that’s how much I already miss you. I love you, Scarlett, and it’s not the kind of love that fades with distance or time. I’m yours and have been since the first time I looked into your eyes. I’ll be yours no matter how much time passes before I see your eyes again. Always.

Jameson

“Do you think fifty thousand would cover it for the district?” I asked, wedging the phone between my ear and very sore shoulder as I took notes. I’d pushed it too hard this morning at the gym, but at least I hadn’t fallen.

“That’s more than enough! Thank you!” the librarian—Mr. Bell—exclaimed.

“You’re very welcome.” I grinned. This was the best part of my job. “I’ll send the check out today.”

“Thank you!” Mr. Bell repeated.

We hung up, and I opened the corporate checkbook to the next blank check. The Scarlett Stanton Foundation for Literacy. I