He just says quietly, "Okay, baby. I’m listening. Go on."
It nearly breaks me how easily he gives me that. His full trust. No judgment. No suspicion.
I close my eyes, and the room slips away—the polished calm of the present dissolving into the thick, unmoving heat of that night. I’m back in our cramped bedroom,where the air never circulated, and the window was painted shut. Sweat clings to my skin. I remember thinking,Why is it always so hot in here?
My hands are tacky with cheap cough syrup, the sugar drying on my fingers as I feed Maria, the youngest, who shivers beneath fever -soaked sheets that smell faintly of sweat and detergent that never quite rinsed clean. She’s burning up.I should’ve given it to her earlier. I should’ve checked again.Somewhere beyond the wall, our foster mother’s television laughs too loudly—bright, canned joy bleeding into a house that feels hollow and tired. I remember hating that sound.How can anyone laugh like that?
The hallway air is stale and sour, heavy with old food and something chemical. My bare feet know every warped board as I carry the medicine bottle and a damp cloth for Maria’s head. It’s so late the night feels thick, pressing in. I step around heaps of laundry and a pair of men’s boots near the back door, the leather cracked and dark with use.He’s home,my mind registers, sharp and immediate.He’s not supposed to be.
A floorboard creaks as I reach Maria’s room—the only door left ajar, a thin blade of yellow light cutting through the dark. My heart stutters. My ears ring.Please just be sleeping,I think, already knowing it won’t be.
I push the door open.
For a split second, everything freezes: his shape blocking the light, Maria’s eyes wide and unfocused, her mouth moving without sound as she tries to disappear into the mattress.No,my mind says, flat and absolute.Not her.The room smells sharp and metallic, mixed with the sickly sweetness of fever. My vision tunnels. Something in me goes cold and very, very still.This is real. This is happening.
The paring knife I used earlier sits on the cluttered nightstand, tacky with dried apple juice. I don’t remember deciding to grab it. My hand just closes around it, locking tight enough to hurt. Sound drains away until there’s only my breathing and Maria’s thin, broken whimper.Get him away from her.The thought isn’t loud. It’s a command.
I don’t think. I don’t shout. I move.
He recoils with a startled cry, stumbling away from the bed.Too slow,flashes through my head—not triumph, just urgency. Maria curls into herself, sobbing into her pillow, her small shoulders shaking. The sight of her—so small, so -hot—hits harder than anything else.I’m sorry,I think, wild and useless.I’m so sorry.
I don’t stop until my foster mother crashes into the room, screaming, her nails digging into my arms as she hauls me backward. The knife skitters across the floor. Maria’s crying fills the space where everything else disappears. And somewhere beneath the noise, one thought settles in, heavy and unmovable:They’re never going to believe me.
Suddenly I’m yanked back into the present, heart racing, chest burning. My whole body is shaking. "It was just before my fifteenth birthday," I whisper, hearing my own voice from some faraway place. "And I don’t regret it. Not for a second. And I never will."
I start pacing again without meaning to, the story dragging motion out of me.
“They convinced the authorities I was mentally unstable,” I say. “They used my foster record. Said I’d been bounced around. Said I was violent. Said I was dangerous.” My voice sharpens. “They had me locked up for a year. The staff spent every day trying to convince me I was crazy. Sometimes I felt crazy, Luke, because I was screaming the truth and no one listened.”
I force myself to look at him.
“I begged them to check the other girls. I begged them to do interviews, medical exams, anything. They ignored me.”
My stomach twists as the next memory rises.
“When my foster mother came to the hospital,” I say, “she acted like she was forgiving me. Like she was some saint.” My voice drops. “She wasn’t there to forgive anything. She was there to make sure I understood my place.”
I stop pacing. My body goes cold.
“When I asked her why she didn’t protect the girls,” I whisper, “do you know what she said?”
Luke’s eyes are blazing. “What?”
“She said, ‘Whom do you think gave him the idea? He wanted you for a long time, but I convinced him the younger ones would be easier for him to control.”
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Like the house itself stopped breathing.
“Maria was hurt at nine years old,” I say, voice shaking, “because his wife decided I’d be too much trouble.”
My chest tightens, but I push through. “When I turned sixteen, because I was a ward of the state, I could be released and taken out of the system. That’s when I found Bill. He helped me access my trust.”
I wipe at my face hard, like I can scrub the memory off my skin.
“After college, I built the youth center downtown,” I say. “Because I couldn’t save the girls in that house. I left them behind.” My voice breaks. “And I needed to do something good with the guilt, or it was going to swallow me.”
Luke is motionless, listening so hard it feels like he’s holding the whole story in his hands. When I look at him, every instinct in me screams to pull him close, but I don’t. I can’t.
“Anyone attached to me becomes collateral damage,” I say. “Do you understand? You. Your brother. Your sister. Your parents. Your career. Your entire life.” My throat tightens. “I can’t let that happen, Luke. That’s why we can’t get back together. That’s why I have to push you away.”
