The headlights cut through the fading daylight as he backed out. I watched him drive away, the truck growing smaller as it moved down the road; the sun sinking lower on the horizon,painting everything in shades of amber and rust. My breath fogged the glass. I didn’t move until the truck disappeared completely, swallowed by distance and twilight.
The house felt impossibly quiet.
I locked the door, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the deadbolt. The click echoed through the empty living room, final and absolute.
I stood there in the dark, my back pressed against the door, and tried to breathe. My chest felt too tight. My lungs wouldn’t expand properly. The air came in shallow gasps that didn’t seem to reach deep enough.
Derek is Frankie’s biological father.
The thought crashed over me like a wave, pulling me under.
Frankie has known since she was two years old and never told me.
Another wave. Harder this time. My knees buckled.
Derek hurt Sam.
Derek killed Marsha Wade.
Jack and Sam hired Slyce to find us without telling me.
Everyone knew. Everyone kept secrets.
The revelations kept coming, one after another, until I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. My chest tightened. My lungs refused to expand properly. I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest.
How many secrets were there? How many lies by omission? How many people in my life had looked me in the eye and decided I couldn’t handle the truth?
Sam knew Derek was Frankie’s father and said nothing.
Jack knew and said nothing.
Frankie knew and said nothing.
Derek knew and said nothing.
My hands were shaking. My whole body trembled. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they came anyway, hot and angry and desperate.
I’d spent years trying to protect my daughter. Years running, hiding, building a life where she’d be safe. And the whole time, the people I was learning to trust were keeping secrets that could destroy everything.
But they were protecting you too,a small voice whispered in the back of my mind.
I shoved it away.
Protection didn’t look like lies. Protection didn’t look like violence. Protection didn’t look like—
“Mom?”
The small voice cut through the darkness.
I looked up and saw Frankie standing at the mouth of the hallway, her hair messy from sleep. Her eyes wide and worried, uncertain in a way that made her look younger than twelve.
“Sweetheart.” I tried to wipe my face, tried to pull myself together. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard yelling.” She took a tentative step closer, then stopped, as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed. “Where’s Derek?”
The question hit me like a punch to the gut.
“He left,” I said quietly.
