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The way my name sounds in her mouth feels safe enough for me to smile again; it’s been so long since I've smiled the way I do with her around.

“What makes you think that I’m thinking about something right now?”

“Mmmh, the fact that I literally asked you the same question four times and you never replied but kept looking at me?”

“Okay you got me here,” I reply, a faint smirk lifting my lips.

She tilts her head and asks again, “So?”

I breathe slowly, because I don't want to ask a question that might hurt her. “Why do you want to leave?”

“Because it’s safer for Milo, I already told you that,” she replies softly.

“And you? Would you be safe too?”

She closes her eyes and puts her head on my shoulder, “I don’t think I’ll ever be safe.”

“Why? I’m here and as long as I am, you will be safe.”

“You know, when my mom died, when she… when she killed herself, my grandmother wanted to take Milo and I to Algeria and live there with her.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“My dad didn’t want to lose Milo, and I didn’t want him to go through what I went through. So I stayed, and now I’m still here for him.”

“How old were you?” I ask as my hand slowly caresses her hair.

“It was so long ago, but I still remember the way it felt. She was there and then she was gone forever, and dad didn’t want me to see the body, or attend the funeral. He didn’t go there himself because he felt ashamed that his girlfriend committed. But it was her birthday, and she never had the chance to be older and be happier. She was gone on the 25th of December and Christmas never felt the same after that.”

“I’ll make sure the next ones will be better…”

She smiles but shakes her head, “You can’t rewrite the past.”

“I can write about the future.”

Her eyes sparkle softly and she says, “She’d probably like you… my mom I mean.”

I smile, and then my focus goes elsewhere. “Your dad, and your mom, weren't they married?” I ask softly.

She laughs sadly, “No, she wanted to. She truly did… but he never gave her his name, because she didn’t deserve it apparently…”

Suicide… almost twenty years ago. Why does it sound like— “I don’t remember her face.” I grab her chin pulling her toward me and in a second she’s hugging me. “Why can I not remember her face Damien?”

“Sometimes it’s better that way, Reya.”

She looks up at me confused and asks, “How could you know?”

Breathe.

“When I was a kid, my mom wasn’t happy. My dad left and she never healed from it. She actually drowned in alcohol and too many men at the house, and she died from that when I was just a kid.”

“Where do you go after that?”

Goddamn, I hate thinking about this. “I lived outside, for years, trying to find jobs, and anything that could help. That’s when I met the man who was working on the case, his name was Bobby. He always brought me food every day until he asked me if I wanted a job, and I said yes, and here we are now.”

“You don’t remember her?”

Do I?