I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Send me your address. I’ll be there.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “Thank you, Damon.”
But when the line goes dead, I don’t feel thankful. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into a storm I thought I’d left behind.
Six years of wondering. Now, I’ll finally get answers.
And Jason? He doesn’t know it yet, but his time is running out.
Mia’s house is smaller than I expected, a modest bungalow tucked at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. From the outside, it looksordinary, a place where someone might bake cookies or plant flowers. But when I pull into the driveway and take a closer look, it’s anything but.
The front door has a reinforced steel frame, nearly invisible unless you’re trained to notice. A camera perches discreetly above the porch, its lens trained on the street. Another one is mounted at the side, covering the driveway and the backyard gate.
She’s turned this place into a fortress.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and step out, scanning the perimeter automatically. No signs of Jason, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease.
When the door opens, my breath catches.
Mia.
She’s different, but then again, so am I.
Her hair is shorter now, falling just past her shoulders, and there’s a tiredness in her posture I don’t remember. But her eyes—those fierce, stormy blue eyes—are the same, even if they’re shadowed by years of fear and fighting.
“Damon,” she says, her voice soft but steady.
“Mia.” Her name feels strange on my tongue, like an old song I can’t quite remember.
She steps back, holding the door open. “Come in.”
Inside, the house is neat. Almost too neat, like she’s spent hours scrubbing away anything that might give her away. But there’s no hiding the details: escape routes planned down to the smallest inch, locks reinforced with bolts that wouldn’t look out of place in a vault.
She’s learned to protect herself.
The living room is cozy but functional. A couch, a coffee table, and a couple of mismatched chairs.
A framed photo on the mantle catches my eye, but before I can look closer, Mia clears her throat.
“This way,” she says, nodding toward the couch.
I follow her, my senses on high alert, cataloging everything: the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. The way her hands shake just slightly when she motions for me to sit.
She doesn’t waste time. As soon as we’re seated, she launches into it—Jason’s threats, his stalking, the psychological warfare he’s been waging.
“He shows up at the daycare,” she says, her voice tightening. “Sends messages through mutual acquaintances. Leaves notes on my car. He knows things—things he shouldn’t. It’s like he’s everywhere, always watching.”
Her words feed the rage simmering just beneath my skin. Jason’s been pulling this crap for years, using fear to control and destroy.
But as she talks, my attention drifts to the mantle again. To the photo.
It’s a picture of two little girls, maybe four or five years old, with identical smiles and curly dark hair. Something about them pulls at me—one has my mother’s eyes, a warm brown with flecks of gold. The other has my sister’s nose, slightly upturned. My sister used to complain about that feature.
My heart skips a beat. It can’t be. She would have told me if they were mine, wouldn’t she?.
“Damon?” Mia’s voice snaps me back. She follows my gaze, and her body stiffens.
“Your daughters?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, though the question burns in my throat.
