Chapter 3
The last week has been surreal. Joe vanished without a trace, and I’ve been interviewed more times than I can count. Detectives. Social workers. FBI. All of them asking the same questions in slightly different ways, circling the same terrifying conclusion:
My life is still in danger.
The coroner’s report confirmed what I already suspected. The texts from my mom’s phone were sent hours after she died. Joe was trying to lure me home. Whether to kill me, or something worse, I’ll never know.
The state’s building a case against him, and they want me to testify. They keep saying he’ll be caught soon, but I’m not holding my breath. I know him. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants. And Joe? He’s never been the type to let anything go.
The entire town is shocked. Their beloved sheriff is a murderer. A wife killer. How could it be?
It’s almost laughable. Itriedto tell them. For years. About the bruises. The yelling. The fear. But no one believed me. It took a buried CPS report—one filed by a teacher I once trusted—to finally support my story. But it’s too late now. Too bad no one listened when it could have mattered.
Maybe then she wouldn’t be dead.
There’s no point dwelling on it. The past won’t change.
The guilt I carry isn’t about what happened. It’s about how I feel. Or rather… don’t feel. I haven’t cried for my mom. I’ve cried from shock, from fear, from the chaos of that day, but grief? Not exactly.
I think she loved me, in her own way. But when the person you love most sees the bruises, hears the screaming, calls youdramatic, and stays despite all of it? That kind of betrayal doesn’t leave room for love. It leaves room for scars.
Her funeral is tomorrow, and I’m not allowed to go. Mrs. Smith gave me major side-eye when I didn’t react to the news. The risk is too high. They think Joe will be watching. That it’s the perfect moment for him to snatch me up and finish what he started.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe he would.
Maybe I should let him.
After everything, they placed me in a local safe house. And strangely? I’ve slept better this week than I have in years. No screaming. No footsteps creeping toward my door. No fists pounding on the wood. Just silence.
Beautiful, peaceful silence.
Chapter 4
I’m meeting with Mrs. Smith today to figure out what happens next. I sit at the kitchen table, tapping my fingernails against the cheap laminate. The repetitive tap-tap-tap is the only sound in the room. She’s late.
When she finally shows up, she’s not alone. I straighten instinctively as a man walks in behind her. He looks… familiar. But I can’t place him.
“Good. You’re already sitting,” Mrs. Smith says, heels clacking across the tile. My eye twitches when she drags a metal chair back with an ear-splitting scrape and sits next to me. The man takes the seat across from me, his sharp blue eyes scanning my face with laser precision.
I try to focus on her, but I can feel his stare like a weighted blanket. Smothering and hot.
Unexpectedly, he speaks first. “Lina?”
My eyes snap to his. He looks mid-forties. Classically handsome. Short blonde hair, neatly styled. Expensive suit. Rigid posture. All professional polish. It’s the eyes that catch me. That shade of blue… I know it.
“Yeah?” I answer.Brilliant, Lina. Truly eloquent.
“I’m FBI Agent Ben Harrington.” He pauses. “I’m your biological father.”
I choke on my own spit.
“What?!”
I whip my head between them like I’m watching a tennismatch, waiting for the punchline. This must some cruel, twisted prank, but neither one of them is laughing. Instead, I am.
It starts as a disbelieving huff, but it unravels into full-blown, unhinged cackling that echoes off the kitchen walls. I’ve officially lost it. Mrs. Smith shifts awkwardly in her seat. Good. Sheshouldbe uncomfortable. My real dad’s been dead for seventeen years. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.
“Lina,” she says gently, placing a hand over mine.
