“I met a man at a truck stop outside Wichita. Roman Miller. He was older… seventeen years older. But he seemed so worldly, so charming. He ran a traveling carnival, and when he offered me a job, it felt like fate.”
My stomach clenches at the age difference, at the implications. “Fifteen and thirty-two.”
“I was almost sixteen,” she says defensively, then catches herself. “Shit, listen to me. Still making excuses for him after all these years.”
“He hurt you.”
It's not a question, but she nods anyway. “Not at first. At first, he was everything I'd dreamed of. Sophisticated, passionate,completely focused on me. We got married on my eighteenth birthday, and I thought I was the luckiest girl alive.”
I exhale slowly. “But it changed.”
“Of course.” She offers me more water, her hands steady despite the pain in her voice. “He started small. Criticism under the guise of helpful suggestions. Isolation framed as protection. By the time I realized what was happening, I was trapped in a web I couldn't see my way out of.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “Twelve years of walking on eggshells, of making myself smaller and smaller until I disappeared completely.”
I want to reach for her, to offer some kind of comfort, but the restraints hold me in place. “What changed? What made you finally leave?”
Her laugh is bitter, sharp-edged. “He tried to kill me. Not the first time, but close enough. I defended myself with a rigging spike. Put it right through his gut. I thought I'd killed him.”
“But he survived.”
“Unfortunately.” She tears another piece of bread with unnecessary violence. “Though I still wish he hadn't.”
The honesty in her voice makes my chest tight. This woman—fierce, beautiful, damaged—carries wounds that may never fully heal. And somehow, she's found a family in these traveling killers who understand exactly what she's survived.
“Have you ever contacted your parents again? Since you left home?”
She goes very still, her eyes distant.
“I couldn't face them.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “How do you explain to the people who raised you that you threw away every opportunity they gave you? That you chose a life of abuse over the safety they provided?”
“They probably just want to know you're alive,” I say carefully.
“Maybe.” She wipes her eyes quickly, like she's angry at herself for showing vulnerability. “But it's been too many years, too much water under the bridge. I'm not the daughter they remember.”
I tilt my head. “You could be.”
She shakes her head firmly. “That girl died a long time ago. The woman I am now doesn't need anyone's approval or forgiveness.”
But I can hear the lie in her voice, see the longing she's trying to hide. A part of her still wants to go home.
“How did you find the Seven Sins Carnival?” I ask, changing the subject.
Her expression shifts, becoming more guarded. “After I stabbed Roman, I ran. Did underground shows for a while. Just places that don't ask questions about performers with uncertain documentation. I saw a flyer for the carnival, and something about it called to me.”
“Something?” I prompt.
“I can't explain it. The imagery, the promise of something different. It felt like...” She searches for words. “Like coming home.”
I think about the way Silas looks at her, the casual intimacy between her and the other performers. They're not just colleagues—they're family, bound together by shared darkness and mutual protection.
“They took you in.”
“They understood me.” She meets my eyes directly. “When you've survived what we've survived, you recognize the signs in others. We're all running from something, all trying to build new lives from the ashes of our old ones.”
“And Roman? Your husband?”
