Olivia's breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her jean shorts. She shook her head, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. It broke my heart to see her in this state. My Olivia, my child.
"Olivia." I leaned in closer, urgency threading through my tone. "This isn't just about you or me. It's bigger. You know that."
Silence was her shield, but I saw its cracks. The tremor in her hands. The quick dart of her eyes.
"Please," I implored, the investigator giving way to a mother's plea. "We're running out of time. The police are investigating this now as a murder case, and you’re their prime suspect. You were the last person we know of to have seen him alive."
Her lips parted, then sealed once more. A battle waged in those depths I knew so well. Her eyes flickered—defiance, fear—emotions I couldn't let solidify into an impenetrable fortress.
"Olivia," I started again, my tone a blend of steel and silk. "Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you tell me what happened? What are you afraid of?"
She didn't respond; her gaze was glued to the floor, but I sensed the churning beneath her stoic exterior—it was time for a different approach.
"Remember the summer at Camp Blue Ridge?" I asked.
A slight twitch of her eyebrow—that was all—but enough to tell me I had struck a nerve.
I took us back, two years past, to a moment etched in memory. Olivia had returned from camp quieter than when she'd left, a hurricane brewing behind her eyes. Late one night, I found her on the porch, her knees drawn up to her chest.
"Can we talk?" she had whispered then, her voice trembling like leaves in a soft breeze.
"Always," I had replied, sitting beside her, our shoulders nearly touching.
"Mom, there's this girl…." The words had come out hesitant, testing the waters between us. And that’s when I knew. My daughter had fallen in love with a girl. It took her years to gather the courage to tell the rest of her family and friends.
"Tell me about Mark," I said now, grounding myself in the present as I watched the flicker of recognition in Olivia's eyes.
"Did something happen with Mark last night?" I probed gently. “Is that why you won’t talk about it?”
She glanced up, then away, a flash of the confusion and fear I remembered from that summer's confession.
"Being judged is the least of your worries," I assured her, though my heart raced with concern for what remained unsaid.
"Is it?" she muttered, almost too quiet to catch.
"Absolutely."
"Then why do I feel like it's everything?" Her voice cracked, revealing the turmoil within.
"Because it feels personal. Intimate." I kept my tone measured, recalling the courage it had taken her to confide in me back then.
"Mom, I’m gay, and you know it," she finally said, her voice a whisper against the weight of secrets. “You wouldn’t understand.”
"Then help me understand," I urged, leaning closer, willing her to trust me with whatever haunted her from the shadows of the night before. But she remained silent, and then my phone rang.
Chapter17
The vibration was sudden,a subtle intrusion. I excused myself with a nod to Olivia and fished the phone from my pocket.
"Matt," I answered, stepping away from my daughter.
"Hey, Eva Rae." His voice held the steadiness of bedrock, yet I could hear the edges fraying with concern. I had filled him in on what was going on when speaking to him earlier. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was worried. "How's it going down there?"
"Slow," I admitted, watching Olivia through the slats of the plantation shutters. "Like trying to piece together a jigsaw with half the pieces missing."
"Sounds about right," he chuckled softly. “How’s Olivia holding up?”
I sighed. “Hard to tell. She’s still not talking about what happened, and it’s driving me nuts.”
