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“No. But it broke my heart anyway.” I’d never said that out loud. Sam’s thumb stroked over my knuckles, silent comfort.

“At three, Noa asked me something I’ll never forget. ‘Does Mommy know what I look like?’ I had to leave the room. Sat on my bathroom floor and cried like a baby.”

“Tyson,” she whispered. “Noa’s happy. That’s what matters.”

We drove in comfortable silence after that, her hand in mine, miles disappearing under the tires. The GPS eventually announced our arrival in the suburbs of Charlotte. Manicured lawns and perfect houses, everything pristine in that suffocating way wealthy neighborhoods managed.

The Collins house sat on a corner lot, impressive even by these standards. White columns, circular drive, a place that screamed old money and family expectations. Sam tensed as we pulled up.

“We can still turn around,” I offered.

“No. Let’s get this over with.”

Inside, family photos lined the hallway, and I watched Sam’s face as she took them in. Dozens of pictures of two identical girls in matching outfits. Grinning at cameras, arms slung around each other, inseparable.

“That one’s from our sweet sixteen,” Sam said, pointing to a photo of them in matching pink dresses. “Sophie got drunk and threw up in the country club pool. I took the blame.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I did.” She moved down the hall, past more evidence of a closeness that had curdled into betrayal. “Protected her. Enabled her. Loved her anyway.”

The living room doorway loomed ahead. Sam stopped, took a breath, stepped through. I followed, ready for whatever waited inside.

Diane Collins lay in a hospital bed. She looked smaller than the woman in the photos, hollowed out by illness. But her eyes were sharp when they landed on Sam’s face.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Had a disagreement with a tree,” Sam said flatly.

“Trees don’t usually leave knuckle marks.” She coughed mid-sentence.

“This one did.”

Diane’s gaze shifted to me in the doorway. She studied me with intensity. “Who’s this?”

“Tyson Calloway. My…” She stopped and looked at me. “My boyfriend.”

Fuck yeah, I was. Though I definitely had to ask formally.

“The contractor?”

Sam blinked. “How did you…”

“Sophie mentioned him. Said he was playing house with you in whatever backwater town you’re hiding in.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“No? Then where have you been while I’m dying?”

Even I could hear the accusation in those words. I stepped forward, ready to intervene, but Sam held up a hand.

“I’ve been building a life that doesn’t revolve around cleaning up everyone else’s messes,” she said. “Including yours.”

Diane actually smiled at that. Small, but genuine. “This one looks like he could change a tire.”

“What?”

“Garrett couldn’t. Tried once, called AAA after ten minutes.” She looked back at Sam. “This one seems more capable.”