I sit between them, small and shaking, as the girl in the picture and the woman in the woods fight inside the same skin.
Rafe stands by the doorway, hat in his hands, shoulders broad and tense. His eyes never leave me. Not hovering. Watching. Guarding.
I look at him then at my mother. Suddenly, the space between them feels too wide. Reaching back, I find Rafe’s hand. My fingers curl into his, then I tug—gentle, but certain—pulling him one step closer.
My other hand lifts, pointing to him. Then to me. Then I press my palm flat to his chest. Turning, I point to my mother, then to Bethany.
My family.
Rafe stills beside me, understanding settling into his shoulders. He dips his head once.
“Ma’am,” he says, voice low and steady. “Rafe.”
My mom shakes his hand. “I’m Shannon, and this is Briar’s younger sister, Bethany.”
“Pleasure to meet you both. I’m the one who found Briar when she escaped… the danger.”
My mother reaches for my face, then stops, terrified of hurting me. “Honey…” Her voice breaks. “You don’t have to tell us anything. You’re here. You’re alive. That’s enough.”
I want to speak. I want to say I missed her. I want to say I tried to come home. I want to say I thought I’d never see her again. But nothing moves.
My voice stays locked behind the memory of hands forcing it closed.
I shake my head and push the cup aside, reaching for the scrap of paper Rafe tucked into my jacket before we came inside. He knew I’d need it. He always knows.
The pencil trembles between my fingers as I scratch out a word:
BAD MAN
My mother’s breath leaves her in a choked sob. My sister covers her mouth and cries silently. They don’t ask questions. They don’t push. They just listen with their whole bodies.
I write again, slower:
HURT
My mother’s hand skims the table, stopping inches from mine. “Baby… I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
My sister leans forward. “We looked every day. Flyers. Flyers. The sheriff. We never stopped. We never—” Her voice cracks and she has to stop. “How, Briar?”
I reach for the pencil again. My hand shakes, but I need them to know. Need them to understand I didn’t just disappear. I write slowly, pressing hard so the letters are clear.
CREEK. SWIMMING. LOST FROM FRIENDS.
I tap the words. Then I touch my bare feet—still always bare, still always the feet of the girl who ran into the woods that summer afternoon without shoes.
My mother makes a sound like something tearing loose inside her. Bethany covers her mouth. They understand. That ordinary afternoon. That last ordinary day. How close to home I was when everything changed.
My mother wipes her eyes. “We’ll call the sheriff,” she says gently. “Let them know you’re home. They’ll take you off the list.”
My heartbeat skips as I reach for the paper, but she places her fingers on my hand.
“No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want,” she adds quickly. “No questions you don’t want to answer. We just… want the searching to stop.”
The searching.
I nod once.
That feels right.
