The sound of my name comes from behind me. It isn’t loud. It isn’t sharp. It’s eerily calm.
My body reacts before my mind does. Every muscle locks. My breath stops halfway in my lungs. For a fraction of a second, I am sixteen again, standing in a hallway with nowhere to run.
I turn slowly.
Jackson Rhoades stands near the edge of my kitchen with his coat draped over one arm as if he has been waiting politely for me to arrive. His expression is composed. Mild. Almost paternal.
My first instinct is to scan for forced entry. Broken glass. Splintered lock. But there’s nothing.
“How did you get in?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
He glances toward the hallway that leads to the mudroom. “You should review your security protocols,” he replies evenly. “You’ve grown comfortable.”
That is not an answer. It is a demonstration.
I straighten fully, refusing to allow my body to betray the surge of adrenaline beneath my skin.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“On the contrary,” he says, folding his hands loosely in front of him, “I believe this is long overdue.”
The air in the room shifts. It feels smaller now, compressed by his presence.
“Shane’s suspension,” I say. “That was you.”
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t deny it.
“The athletic commission takes regulatory integrity seriously,” he says. “As do sponsors. As do voters.”
Voters. There it is. He always has an angle.
“You’re leveraging pressure,” I say.
“I’m correcting instability,” he counters. His tone is infuriatingly measured. He isn’t shouting. He isn’t threatening in any overt way. He is explaining. As though I am a problem that requires management.
“You had me institutionalized,” I say quietly. “And now you’re calling me unstable.”
“You were unstable,” he replies, voice cool but firm. “You were violent. You were irrational. You created a narrative that damaged multiple families.”
My hands curl against the counter behind me, but I don’t break eye contact.
“I protected innocent children from you,” I say.
“You attacked an elected official.” The phrasing is intentional.
He steps closer, though he keeps a careful distance. Close enough to lower his voice, not close enough to touch me.
“You are about to become very visible again,” he continues. “Talk shows. Interviews. Public sympathy. That visibility will invite scrutiny. When that scrutiny reaches my doorstep, it will be handled. Efficiently.”
“And how do you plan to handle it?” I ask.
“With truth,” he replies.
I almost laugh. “Your version of it.”
“The version supported by medical records,” he says. “By incident reports. By witness statements.” He means the medical reports, the foster records, and the sealed court documents.
“You expect me to confess and take full blame for everything you did,” I say slowly.
