A hard clatter hits tile. I flinch.
“You want the whole street to hear?” Papa snaps. “We’re keeping her safe. That’s all that matters.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Mama says, quieter, fiercer. “She hasn’tstepped outside alone in weeks. No school. No friends. This isn’t safety—this is a cage. She’s starting to ask questions. We need this to stop.”
A chair scrapes. Footsteps cross the floor and stop. When Papa speaks again, his voice sounds as heavy as a verdict.
“I can’t fight them with the law, honey. We take Jacob’s offer… or we lose her.”
After a pause, Mama’s words come out in a scrape. “You think he’s safe? You’ve seen the way he looks at her. She’s scared of him… you know this!”
Silence. Then Papa replies, “He’s the sheriff. And right now, he’s the only person we can trust.”
Trust?I press my nails into my skin and hold still. Doors slam in my head—memories of being watched, controlled flood back—and every one of them wears his shadow on the other side. If danger has a face in this town, it’s his. I can’t stay in the shadows anymore. I step into the doorway. They both look up—Papa tense, Mama with eyes red and wet.
“What’s going on?” My voice is steady enough to surprise me.
Mama immediately bows her head into her hands, her back pulsing with the strain of tears. But Papa doesn’t look away. He rubs his thumb along the table’s edge, like he’s bracing. He sighs—long and drawn out—it comes straight from the depths of his core.
“There’s something you need to see, Summer.” Papa runs his hand through his thinning silver hair and looks down to the floor. “Come down here, honey.”
I take the stairs one trembling step at a time, every movement loud in my ears. Each footstep feels like a punishment. I stop by the dining table, too anxious to sit, worried that I might not be able to rise again.
Mama turns suddenly. “Michael?—”
“She has to know,” he says without taking his eyes off me. “Otherwise, she won’t understand why this is happening.”
My heartbeat climbs high and tight. “Understand what?”
Papa pushes away from the dining table and turns to open thebottom drawer of the sideboard. He takes out a thick, battered envelope and sets it in front of me, his hand lingering.
“What’s in here isn’t hearsay, honey. It’s proof,” he tells me. “Proof that we are all in danger.” A beat. “Especially you.”
A cold prickle gathers at the back of my neck.
“Whatever you see,” he adds, “you can’t unsee. But you have to look. You have to understand what we’re up against.”
He slides the envelope toward me and lets his hand fall away. I open the flap, my fingers catching on the rough paper. Photographs spill across the table—some faceup, others I flip.
Papa outside the grocery store, arms full of bags.
Mama on the porch, pegging laundry to the line.
Me leaving school.
Me in the park with Adelaide, her mid-laugh while I sip from a straw.
Then one that freezes my breath—my pillow at a familiar angle. Hair across my cheek. Eyes closed.
I’m asleep.
The photo shakes in my hand. My mouth tastes metallic.
Someone stood over my bed. Close enough to touch me. Close enough to hear me breathe.
I turn it over. The words are carved into the paper in jagged block letters:
Take one of ours, we take one of yours.
