She opened the book. Within sentences, she had transformed. The voices, the expressions, the sheer, captivating joy she took in the story, it was Elena's magic. But it was also, undeniably, uniquely Anna's.
As I watched her, Daisy's head resting trustingly on her shoulder, the terrifying truth slammed into me.
I was falling for her. Not as a replacement for Elena—God, never that. Not as a convenient warmth to fill the cold spaces. But as Anna. Complicated, guilty, gentle, strong Anna. The woman who made vegetable boats for my daughter. Who cried when I offered herthis job. Who'd just fled from a five-year-old's innocent question like it was a death sentence.
And the most terrifying part was the realization that I was already over the edge, powerless to stop the fall.
The question wasn't if I could forgive her. The question, as Daisy had so simply laid bare, was whether I dared to ask her to stay. Forever.
The session ended with applause. Children swarmed Anna, asking questions, showing her drawings. She was laughing, patient, fully present.
And then I saw it.
Her phone, lying face-up on the table where she'd set down her bag. The screen lit up with a notification.
From this distance, I couldn't read the message. But I saw her glance over it. I saw the way her face changed, the color draining away, the smile freezing, then cracking. Saw her hands start to shake.
She looked up, her eyes finding mine across the room. And the terror in them was so raw and complete that I was moving before I'd consciously decided to.
Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
13.Anna
I'd spent the last five days avoiding being alone with Jack.
It wasn't hard. I didn’t work at his home on weekends, so after Saturday's reading, I went straight home and didn’t pick up any of his calls.
Anna
I don’t feel too well. See you on Monday.
The text was quite vague, but Jack was too polite to pressure me into talking, especially when I was claiming to be ill and establishing a boundary, so our only form of contact for the rest of the weekend were checkup messages from him.
The penthouse was large enough that I could hear his footsteps and strategically position myself in rooms he'd already passed through. I timed my arrival on Monday for when Mrs. Rosa would be there, and mydeparture for when Daisy needed attention. I became a master of the polite exit, the necessary task that couldn't wait, the phone call I absolutely had to take in another room.
Anything to avoid the conversation I knew was coming. The one where he'd ask about Saturday. About the terror he'd seen flash across my face when my phone lit up. About why I'd gone pale as a ghost in the middle of a children's reading session, my hands shaking so badly I'd nearly dropped the book.
He'd noticed. Of course, he'd noticed. Jack noticed everything.
But I couldn't tell him. Not about the text. Not about the creeping certainty that had been building in my gut for the past week, the feeling of being watched, the hang-up calls to the foundation's main line, the white sedan I'd seen twice near my apartment building that looked too much like the one Carter's friend used to drive.
It was probably nothing. Paranoia. The ghost of trauma making me see monsters in shadows.
But the text... the text had been real.
Soon.
That single word had been haunting me for five days. I'd deleted the text immediately, blocked the number, but it lived in my mind, playing on repeat. Soon. Soon what? Soon, he'd find me? Soon, he'd make good on every threat he'd ever whispered in my ear?
Carter was in prison. His sentence was fifteen years.The documents said so. The news articles confirmed it. He couldn't reach me.
Logic did nothing to calm the primal fear that lived in my conscious now.
But I pushed it aside and decided to focus on this beautiful Tuesday and the pleasant weather it had to offer.
Daisy sat at the kitchen table practicing her letters, her small tongue peeking out in concentration as she carefully traced the curves and lines of her name. She'd mastered the 'D' and the 'a,' but the 'i' still gave her trouble; she kept making it backwards. Each time she caught her mistake, she'd let out a small huff of frustration that was adorable and achingly familiar. So much like her father.
