A message meant for another. A love meant only for her. Read on for a sneak peek of Catherine Hope’s gripping and emotional debut novel, The Last Message…

I looked at the face of the phone and rubbed my eyes to clear my vision. There was a message. Who on earth would be texting at this time in the morning? Nobody I knew had this number.

I opened the text. I needed to read it a couple of times, as it didn’t make any sense to my sleepy brain.

“W-what . . . who . . .?”

Marissa, this year I am sending my last message to you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself, and I will never forget you, but I have to find a way to let you go.

“Huh?” I blinked and ran my fingers through my hair. Marissa? I checked the time again. Only a few minutes past the last time I checked. I squinted to read the text again. There was no number showing who sent it.

Unknown caller.

Even if my first instinct was to reply, I wouldn’t be able to. There was no way I could let the sender know the message had gone astray. I gently put the phone down on the bed and sat there, thinking about it.

The message was raw. Emotional. Soulful. I kneaded my chest with my knuckles, surprised how affected I was by the despair the words conveyed. They were meant for someone else, and I couldn’t help feeling I’d intruded on someone else’s pain and heartache.

It took a moment for my heartbeat to settle down. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I shut the windows, turned off the light, and crawled back into bed. I yawned and snuggled into the pillows, desperately needing more sleep.

But I lay there, sleep now firmly out of reach. I couldn’t get the text message out of my head. I groaned and fished for the phone tangled in the sheets. I read the illuminated message again.

Either someone had made a mistake, or this number used to belong to somebody else.

Despite my curiosity, it was none of my business, but there was something so heart-wrenching about the message.

I put the phone down and fell back into the pillows. I finally nodded off again, but it was a rough sleep. I floated between waking and drifting off, constantly thinking or dreaming about the text. I couldn’t shake off the words or stop them running like a reel of ticker tape through my brain.

Finally, I gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed. I padded into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Sticking my arms into the cable-knit sweater I’d made, with tea in hand, I grabbed a throw blanket from the sofa and went outside.

I slung the blanket around my shoulders and sat on a lounger, tucking my legs under me, hands cupping the hot mug.

The moon was full and its reflection glittered off the waves. Stars were out, but they paled in the moon’s light. I stayed, thinking and planning, until the sun rose, bathing the shore and water in gold. It was too beautiful for words. Exhaustion finally overtook me and I snuggled back into bed, knowing exactly what I was going to do about the text.