“I didn’t—” Her voice cracks, and she swallows. “I shared appropriate updates as needed. Nothing more.”
“You told them I ran away.”
She hesitates.
My heart pounds. “Itwasyou.”
“I don’t recall saying that,” she says quietly, eyes shifting.
“You don’t recall? You either did or you didn’t.”
“I followed the recommendations at the time. You were not in a stable place—”
“That’s a lie,” I say, standing. “You lied. You made me look unstable, dangerous. You buried me in that file and walked away.”
“I did what was best for everyone,” she says, her voice louder now.
“What was best?” I hiss. “What you did was take ten years of my life away. My sister had to live ten years without me. She was a baby. Unable to understand why her sisterdisappeared. And you have the nerve to sit there and tell me it's what was best? Best for whom, exactly?”
“Are you accusing me of some—"
“I’m not accusing you,” I cut in. “I’mnamingyou. You were the only one who had control over my records. You were the only one who could’ve twisted the story.”
Silence stretches. Meghan’s mouth opens, then closes again.
“I’m not letting this go,” I say. “What you did to me might’ve been a game to you, but it was my life.”
Meghan stares at me, her face tight, unreadable.
“You thought because I was a kid, I’d never find out? I’m not a child anymore. Don’t think for a second I won’t tear this place apart to get the truth.”
She doesn’t say a word, but I don’t need her to. Her silence is confession enough.
“You’re going to regret underestimating me,” I whisper. Then I turn and walk out, not bothering to shut the door behind me.
***
Back in the car, I sit in silence, willing my heart to stop thudding and my body to stop trembling like a leaf. I grip the steering wheel with both hands, eyes closed. I want to scream, but instead, I breathe—slow and deep—refusing to let the truth swallow me.
Meghan Fletcher stole the only chance I had at a normal life, and I don’t even know why.
"Is everything okay, miss?"
The husky voice right outside my window nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly. "Didn't mean to startle you."
I look up, and meet the kind, dark brown eyes of Cedric Pearson, the home's maintenance man. It's been six years, but I'd recognize him anywhere.
He’s a tall, broad-shouldered Black man in his fifties, with warm eyes and a gentle voice that always made the younger kids feel safe. The corners of his eyes are etched with smile lines, and his grin is just as I remember it, easy and trustworthy. Cedric was the kind of man who’d fix a leaky faucet and stay an extra five minutes to make sure your day was okay too.
"Cedric." I whisper.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, his eyes brightening with recognition. "Dani? Is that really you?"
"Yes, it's me," I say, feeling my nerves settle, my breathing finally sliding back into a normal rhythm.
Cedric lets out a soft chuckle, the kind that rumbles from deep in his chest.
