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I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just nodded and went after Sam. Found her standing in the hallway, staring at more photos. These were recent. Sophie’s wedding. Sam as maid of honor, smiling wide, no idea what was happening behind her back.

“You okay?”

“Look at my face in this one,” she said, pointing to a candid shot. “I thought I was happy. Thought my life was exactly what it should be.”

“Maybe it was. Then.”

“No. I was performing even then. Just didn’t know it yet.” She turned away from the photos. “Guest room’s this way.”

The room was exactly what I’d expected. Tastefully decorated, expensively furnished, completely devoid of personality. Sam sat on the bed, suddenly looking exhausted.

“I’ll take the couch,” I said.

“Like hell. We’re adults, Tyson. And in love.”

“Your mom…”

“Can clutch her pearls all she wants. I’m too tired to care.” She touched her face, winced. “I should clean these cuts again.”

“I’ll help.”

In the bathroom, I carefully cleaned around her stitches while she sat on the counter. The harsh light made the bruises look worse, purple and green spreading across her temple.

“I hate that he marked me,” she said quietly. “Hate that I’ll spend weeks wearing his violence on my face.”

“It’s not his. It’s evidence that you fought back and survived.”

She met my eyes in the mirror. “When did you get so wise?”

“Somewhere between the highway and here.” I touched her cheek gently. “You sure about tomorrow? Seeing Sophie?”

“No. But Mom’s right. She’s running out of time. And maybe… maybe I need to hear whatever she wants to say. Need to stop running from this part.”

“And if Sophie starts trouble?”

“Then I’ll finish it.” She slid off the counter, swayed slightly. “Bed. Before I fall over.”

We climbed under the covers fully clothed, too tired for anything else. Sam curled into my side immediately, her head on my chest. I held her carefully, mindful of her injuries.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For being here and not letting me do this alone.”

“Always,” I promised.

25

— • —

Sam

Morning came too soon, bringing coffee that tasted wrong and bruises that had deepened overnight. I stood in my childhood bathroom, staring at my reflection. Purple bloomed across my temple, my lip swollen. Battle scars from my past.

“You decent?” Tyson knocked softly.

“Define decent.”

He came in anyway, hands gentle as he checked my injuries. “How’s the head?”

“Still attached. Barely.”