“Charlie?” Her voice is rough, a smoker’s rasp that cuts through the quiet space. “Baby girl, is that really you?”
The box I’m holding slips from my hands.
Clothes spill across the floor in a cascade of donated fabric, but I can’t move to pick them up.
Can’t do anything except stare at the woman who left me twenty-three years ago and never looked back.
“Diane.” Her name tastes like ash in my mouth.
Not Mom.
Never Mom. Just Diane, the woman who chose a man and a bottle over her two-year-old daughter.
Her smile widens, all teeth and no warmth. “Look at you, all grown up. You look just like I did at your age.” She moves closer, her heels clicking against the floor. “I heard about Rose’s stroke through the family grapevine. Thought I should come see how you’re holding up.”
My voice turns to ice. “Leave.”
“Now, is that any way to greet your mother?” She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel. “I drove all this way to check on you.”
“You’re not my mother.” The words come out steady despite the trembling in my hands. “Grandma Rose is my mother. You’re just the woman who left.”
Diane’s expression flickers, something that might be hurt crossing her face before she buries it. “I had my reasons, Charlie. You were too young to understand.”
“I’m twenty-five now. Still don’t understand how you walk away from a child.”
The door opens again, and Marcus enters. He takes in the scene immediately, his dark eyes moving from the spilled clothes to my pale face to Diane standing too close. His body goes rigid, protective instincts flaring.
“Everything okay here?” His voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the edge underneath.
Diane’s eyes rake over Marcus appreciatively, taking in his tattooed arms, his broad shoulders, the way his black t-shirt stretches across his chest.
Her smile turns predatory as she moves toward him.
“Well, hello.” She touches his arm with practiced familiarity, her fingers trailing over the saints and sinners inked into his skin. “I’m Diane, Charlie’s mother. And you are?”
I move before I can think, physically stepping between them.
My body angles protectively, shielding Marcus from her touch.
The gesture is instinctive, possessive.
Diane’s hand falls away, and her expression shifts from casual interest to sharp calculation.
Her eyes flick between Marcus and me, reading the subtext we’re trying so hard to hide.
The way he positions himself near me despite the careful distance.
The electricity crackling in the space between our bodies.
The protective fury in his dark eyes when he looks at her.
Diane leans in close, her voice dropping low enough that Marcus can’t hear. “Oh, baby girl. You’ve been busy, haven’t you? And here I thought you were just volunteering.”
She pulls back, her knowing look making my stomach drop. Her smile is all calculation now, sharp and dangerous.
“We should catch up. Properly.” Her eyes move to Marcus again then back to me. “I have so many questions about your new…friends.”
27
