“I’ve spoken to him,” she says. “Recently. He has regrets, Shae.”
“He regrets everything except the part where he got away with it.” I haven’t spoken to the old man since Pismo. Haven’t seen him since he prayed behind me in court while I sat on trial for the murder of a federal agent. My father loves redemption stories—especially the kind where he doesn’t have to apologize.
“He wants to give you a second chance,” she says.
“The only second chances our father believes in are his own.” I push off the counter and walk to the window. “So he gave you everything you wanted? Just handed me over like a peace offering?”
“He didn’t know better,” she says. “He thought I was harmless.”
I snort. “You’re telling me the man who taught us how to lie didn’t recognize one?” I stare out at the garden. “Ironic, considering he didn’t raise me to be strong. He raised me to be quiet. Now he’s singing like a damn bird.”
She hums, thoughtful. “I didn’t tell him I’d already been watching you.”
I stop walking. “Definewatching.”
Another soft laugh. “That sounds accusatory.”
“It is.”
“I live nearby, Shae.”
My chest tightens. “Definenearby.”
There’s a smile in her voice now. I can hear it. “Close enough to notice when you turn out the lights. When you wake up. What time you leave for Hearth & Hands every day.”
I don’t answer.
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She lets it stretch—lets me sit with the image of her somewhere in this town, collecting details I never offered.
“You’re good,” I say finally. “I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
I turn away from the window. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to drop into my life like some long-lost moral authority and expect me to—what? Feel something?”
“I don’t expect you to feel anything,” Iris says gently. “I expect you to recognize yourself.”
That word again.Recognition.
I press my nails into my palm until it stings. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“So are you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know what you’ve done,” she says. “And I know what they’ve done to you.”
“They didn’t do anything to me,” I snap. “I did what I did.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “That’s exactly what I mean.”
I laugh, sharp. “You think this is shared trauma? Some sisterly reckoning?”
