She turns to look at me. Her eyes are swollen and red and full of something I recognize. Shame. The kind that eats you from the inside. The kind that makes you believe you deserve what's happening to you because you made one mistake when you were too young to know better.
"He wants five thousand dollars by tomorrow. I don't have it. There’s nothing left. He's going to send the photos to my dad." Her gaze flickers toward the house. Those warm, lit windows. Her father somewhere inside, the good man who thinks his daughter is thriving. "That's why you should find someone else, Rafferty. Because I'll bring all of this down on your family. And you don't deserve that."
The silence in the car is absolute. I can hear the engine ticking as it cools. I can hear the wind pushing through the trees along the driveway. I can hear my own heartbeat, slow and steady and completely at odds with what's happening in my brain.
I look at this woman. Twenty-two years old. Sitting in my car in her father's driveway, shaking, starving, telling me her worst secret because she thinks it's a kindness. Because she thinks she's warning me. Protecting me. Like I'm the one who needs saving in this situation.
She's been carrying this alone for three years. Living in a house full of people who love her, walking past them every single day, and not one of them knows. The loneliness of that is staggering. Not the loneliness of isolation. The loneliness of proximity. Of being surrounded by warmth you can't touch because your hands are too dirty.
"What's his full name?" I ask, somehow keeping my voice level and the rage out of it.
She blinks. “Kyle Whitfield."
"Where does he live?"
She stares at me. I watch the confusion cross her face. She told me the worst thing she's ever done, and I'm asking for an address.
"Ridgemont. Near the university. He was a student when we dated but I think he dropped out. He still lives in the area." She shakes her head. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to walk you to your door. You're going to go inside and tell your family dinner went well, and you're tired. You're going to drink some water, eat something if you can, and go to bed. Try to sleep."
"Rafferty—"
"And tomorrow, when you wake up, this will be over. All of it. Do you understand me?"
"You can't just—"
"I can." I hold her gaze. The car is dark and her face is wet and something in my chest that I've never felt before is pulling so hard I can barely breathe through it. "And I'm going to."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "Why?"
It's the smallest word. The most telling thing she's said all night. Not why will you do this, but why would you? Why wouldanyone? She's been alone with this for so long that she can't fathom someone stepping into it willingly.
"Because you're going to be my wife," I say. "And nobody touches what's mine."
The sound she makes isn't a sob. It's quieter than that. A release. Something clenched too tight for too long finally letting go, just a fraction.
I get out of the car and walk around to her side. Open the door. Offer my hand the same way I did in the restaurant. Open palm, steady fingers.
She takes it.
I walk her to the front door of her father's house. The porch light is bright and warm, and I can hear voices inside. Family. Life. Everything she's been drowning next to.
"Please eat something," I say. "Even if it's just toast."
She nods. She's still holding my hand. Her fingers are cold and thin and they grip mine like I'm the only solid thing left in her world.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I let go of her hand. She opens the door and warm light floods out. I catch a glimpse of a hallway, a staircase, the sounds of people who have no idea what their daughter or sister has been surviving.
The door closes. I stand on the porch for three seconds. Then I turn and walk back to my car.
I call Liam before I've left the driveway.
"I need an address. Kyle Whitfield. Lives near the university in Ridgemont. Probably a dropout."
"What's going on?"
