That’s the lie everyone tells themselves—that love redeems. That it softens. That it saves.
I know better.
Love is just proximity with expectations.
I stand and walk to the window.
Somewhere out there is a woman who shares my blood—who sees what I’ve done and doesn’t flinch. Who doesn’t want to expose me.
Not yet.
For the first time, I don’t feel hunted.
I feel seen.
And that terrifies me.
Because enemies come from the outside.
But family?
Family knows where to look.
Chapter Eighteen
Shae
Ipunch in the number at the bottom of the letter and hitCalllike it’s muscle memory—like I’ve done this before in another life.
It rings once.
Twice.
“Shae,” a woman says softly. No hello. No surprise. “I was hoping you’d call.”
I close my eyes and lean my hip against the counter. “You sound confident.”
A small laugh. Warm. Measured. “I sound relieved.”
“You knew I would.”
“I knew you’d need to,” she says.
I smile despite myself—tight, unpleasant. “Cute trick. Pretending this is about me.”
“It is about you,” she says. “It’s just not only about you.”
Her voice is pleasant in an expensive way. Educated. Controlled. The kind people trust without thinking about why.
I picture her without trying. That bothers me.
“Where did you get my address?” I ask.
A pause. Deliberate. “Public record.”
I narrow my eyes. Smart. Smarter than I gave her credit for.
“You talk to Dad?”
