Page 111

But not now.

Now he twitches.

Now I decide how the story goes.

I lean in, letting my breath ghost across his ear. “You don’t get to silence me anymore.” I straighten, toss the towel into the bowl, and stare down at him. “You always thought you’d have the last word,” I say softly. “But look at you. You can’t even form one.”

The sound of footsteps behind me breaks the spell.

Janice steps into the room, hesitating when the smell hits her. Her nose wrinkles, but she tries to hide it behind a practiced smile.

She says gently. “You’ve been at this all morning, haven’t you?”

“It’s fine,” I mutter, grabbing another towel from the bowl.

She watches me a moment, her eyes flicking between me and my father. “It’s not fine,” she says quietly. “Here. Let me take over. You deserve a break.”

A break? I want to laugh. If she only knew.

I drop the rag to the floor and step back. “I’ll be upstairs.”

She nods. “Go. I got this.”

Taking the stairs, two at a time, I make it to the bathroom in record time. Closing the door behind me, I turn on the shower, allowing the steam to fill the space. I’ll get cleaned, wash this morning from my skin, and then I’ll dive back into my mother’s diary. I’m sure she has so much more to say.

I turn the page, but it’s blank. The faint lines are empty. My heart sinks with the reasoning why there isn’t another entry. Because my mother ran out of time to write it. Her eyes were open to much more than I thought. I try to think back to any clues she might have given me, but other than the few warnings she gave me about the men coming around, I can’t remember anything. I draw more blanks than I like when it comes to my past, but I know that’s the way for my mind to protect me. I wish it knew I no longer needed that protection. Nothing can hurt me. I won’t allow it.

Knowledge is power and I know one person who might hold answers to the building questions. I hope she’s willing to talk to me.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-ONE

The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull up to Clyde’s childhood home. The house slumps behind a tangle of bare trees, their branches scraping the gray sky. Modest. Forgettable. But the air around it feels wrong, saturated with things that refuse to die.

I kill the engine and sit in silence for a moment. A curtain shifts in the front window. A fleeting ripple that’s gone before I can catch it.

She’s watching.

I grab a few pictures of Cindy off the passenger seat. They’re my ammunition. I know it’s cruel, but I’m beyond worrying about cruelty. I want answers.

I step out, the cold slicing at my face. I pull my jacket up around my neck as I make my way to the door. The porch groans under my boots. The brass knocker bites into my knuckles with three sharp raps.

For a moment, nothing.

Then the door creaks open.

Clyde’s mother stands framed in the dim light. She’s smaller than I remember, bones sharp under paper-thin skin. Her eyes rake over me, cautious, wary. Then they land on the pictures in my hand. Strategically facing out so she can see them without me having to bring them to her attention.

Her face crumples before I say anything. She presses a trembling hand to her mouth, like she can hold the years back, but the sob breaks free. It’s a jagged, broken sound that seems to echo from somewhere deeper than her lungs.

“I tried,” she gasps, breath hitching as her knees give slightly beneath her. “God help me, I tried to protect her.”

I catch her elbow instinctively as her weight shifts, and she doesn’t resist when I guide her inside. The door clicks shut behind us.

“No one listened,” she says as we cross the threshold. Her voice is raw now. “No one wanted to see.”

We step into the living room. I thought my father’s house was a shrine to the past; it has nothing to this room. Cindy’s face is splattered on walls, bookshelves, and tables. The air heavy with regret. Her fingers drag across the back of the nearest chair, like she needs to steady herself, to hold onto something real.