Richard pours himself a coffee. Stirs in cream with a small silver spoon. The picture of a man at ease in his own kitchen on a Saturday afternoon.
"Atlas." Richard takes a sip. "Before I forget—Jerry called yesterday about some irregularities in the Q3 offshore routing. Nothing urgent, but I'd like to understand the structure. Walk me through it when you have a minute?"
The flinch is so small I almost miss it.
Atlas's hand pauses on his coffee mug. A tightening around his eyes—the briefest contraction, lasting maybe half a second—before it smooths out and he takes a casual sip.
"Of course. My office? I can pull the files up now."
"Perfect." Richard nods. Kisses Margot on the temple. "Save me a cinnamon roll." He heads for the hallway, coffee in hand.
Atlas sets his mug in the sink. Straightens his cuffs. Doesn't look at me as he passes—but his hand brushes the back of my stool, fingertips trailing across the wood, and I feel it like a current running up my spine.
Then he's gone. Following his father down the hall. Two men walking toward a conversation about offshore routing that isn'treallyabout offshore routing.
I file it away. The flinch. The name Jerry. The phrase irregularities. The fact that Richard saidnothing urgentin the same tone people use when they very much mean urgent but don't want you to know.
Maybe he’s on to whatever Atlas had to do to get me and Bane out of that horrible place.
Maybe all the lies are about to crumble.
Margot watches them go, then turns back to me with a smile. "More frosting?"
"I'm good." I slide off the stool. "I think I'm going to go unpack. Take a shower. Maybe lie down for a bit."
"Of course, sweetheart." She cups my face one more time. Thumb on my cheekbone, careful of the bruise. "I'm glad you're home."
"Me too."
And the terrifying thing is, I think I mean it.
I think this place is slowly starting to feel like home.
No matter how fragile the peace might feel.
I grab my bag from the stairs where I left it and take them two at a time, suddenly desperate to be behind a closed door. Not running—just full. Full of Margot and cinnamon rolls and lies and Atlas's thumb on my hairline and the ghost of Richard's nothing urgent and all of it pressing against the inside of my chest like a balloon about to pop.
My room. I stand in the doorway and look at a space that hasn't changed at all. The bed, the desk, the books organized by spine color along the shelf—reds bleeding into oranges into yellows. The window with its view of the grounds. Everything exactly where I left it, like the room's been holding its breath.
Except for the notebook on my pillow.
My brown journal. The current one. Placed carefully against the pillowcase, spine up, like someone set it there and wanted me to find it.
Zero.
I pick it up. Hold it for a second. He already told me he read them—all of them—so this isn't a surprise. It's a message.I was here. I was in your space. I held the most private thing you own and I'm not pretending I didn't.
I put it back in the chest at the foot of the bed. Close the lid.
Then I unpack.
It doesn't take long. One bag, one life—that's always been the math. Clothes in the dresser. Toothbrush in the bathroom.Suppressants in the top drawer behind the socks. The duffel empties fast.
I fold it flat. Carry it to the closet. Put it on the top shelf, behind a box of books I haven't touched since I moved in. Up high. Out of reach.
Then I close the closet door and stand in the middle of my room and listen to the house. Margot humming in the kitchen below me. The low murmur of Atlas and Richard behind a closed door down the hall. Bane's room across the hallway, his door shut, a strip of light visible underneath.
This house. This family. This life I didn't ask for and tried to run from and got dragged back into through blood and concrete and three stepbrothers who went through hell to get me back.
